I Don’t Like it When People Yell at Me
The first thing I notice are the big baggy pants that hang loosely off his small, wiry frame as he approaches my window in the thrift store parking lot. We’re out in smoky British Columbia this week visiting family and friends and looking forward to my wife running a half marathon on the weekend. I’m reading a book in the van while my wife snoops around inside. I perform a quick visual inspection of my guest. Teeth, missing or crooked; a nose that looks like it’s been broken one time too many; probably half a year’s worth of dirt under his fingernails. He looks like he’s in his thirties, but he could be younger than that. I know that years hang heavier off those who wander up to strangers in parking lots looking for help. Read more