He slid out of the rust eaten truck and stood for a moment, hand resting on the truck door. His slack spongy skin run through with grooves of hardship, while slumped shoulders proclaimed quiet acceptance of a weary life. Slack mouthed, he pulled up his olive green pants only for them to sag again, the fabric worn thin and stretched.
He began talking out loud, lips moving quickly, his recipient unapparent-begging the question if this man--of all men, was wearing a Bluetooth…or perhaps he was simply crazy. Onlookers move nervously at the thought of Crazy, taking alert glances at one another as if sharing a universal secret with a need to reassure. “He is an old beaten down man, we can take him” Truck door slammed shut; suspicious eyes are magnetized to the silhouette of a person in the passenger seat. No technology or insanity here. People breathe again, going back to gassing up their cars, avoiding each other’s glances, embarrassed over their silent overreaction.
Slowly, cautiously the man takes a step; a lurching, bowlegged step, then a straight step.
No. Not bowlegged – crooked; a shocking angle where a leg should never have a corner. The man steps and his body lurches with his leg-Step. Sway. Step. Sway. A tortured walk of a hundred steps to a whole leg’s ten. Lines in his face fold into themselves with concentration until his face is more prune than human.