A Story If You Want To Hear It Or Not

Sat in Cafe Percolator drinking my coffee listening to the local band line up - when they were good they were good and when they were bad, they were bad. All local young kids. The joint was packed and I felt a little self conscious because I do believe I was the oldest one in the audience. However, I do have to admit, the band playing at that moment was very good.

An old bum shuffled in - his stench preludes him - the wafting smell of urine, vomit, and soiled linens. He shuffled past me (I was sitting by the door, next to the soda refrigerator) and ambled to a group of piss elegant young ladies - all looking appalled at this Lost Street Hipster. Jose, the manager, swiftly approached him - unfortunately - because of the soda refrigerator - I did not see what transpired, but the tramp came back around and sat at my table. Shabby grey beard, squat stature, well worn denim jacket and pants, soiled t-shirt, all smelling foul. The smell of alcohol alone was enough to make an ambulance attendant puke. He gazed at me with blood shot eyes.

"Hi." He slurred.

"Hi."

"You smoke?"

"Smoke what?" I asked.

He sighed in exasperation, "Cigarettes."

"Yes. Of course." I stated matter of factly.

"I thought so." He grinned, winking with one eye. "You look like a smoker."

Really? I thought. What does a smoker look like? Was it my yellowed finger tips? My stained teeth? My rasping voice? Hmmm? What gave it away?

His face went as blank as a card dealers, "I wanna smoke with ya."

"Well, we can't smoke in here."

"I know that!" He gesticulated. "We gotta go outside!"

"I wanna watch the bands."

"Okay." He said, wobbling in the chair. "Okay. Could you spare a smoke, then?"

"Sure." I stood up and reached into my chino pockets and took out a my pack fishing for a cigarette and handed one to him. He grabbed it with calloused red hands - gnarled and worn from a thousand climates.

He stood up - farted and said, "Thanks. Now, I going outside - then I'm coming back and I'm going to tell you a story if you want to hear it or not."

He shuffled outside. The bands wailed on. I drank my coffee. The night winds howled. I look out the large pane window and see the old hobo tottering and wobbling down the dark street against the gusting storm - I guess I'm not going to get to hear that story after all...