This morning at my usual haunt, I watched as a bearded 20-something — T-shirt and pot-belly — sloshed and sloshed and sloshed his coffee on the condiment counter, stirring it like he absolutely, positively didn’t give a shit. “Dude!” I said, thinking I might snap him out of whatever born-in-a-barn reverie had laid hold of him, but he knew what he was doing. “Makin’ a mess, ain’t I?” he said, and shot me a sideways grin.
A grin that seemed to say, “And you ain’t man enough to stop me, are you? Not you, not nobody else in this fag coffee bar.”
“You’re like a blender with the lid off there,” I pressed, because I’ve had a pretty good run at life and wouldn’t mind so much if it ended right this very minute, but he only smirked and walked away.
So soon, I thought, the deplorables have arrived. Getting the party started. Firing up the grill.