Late afternoon, I was reading a book called Death and Dying, Dying and Death at a little street restaurant under a large canopy erected on the pavement. It was so hot my senses were hysterical and unmanageable. There was a man making popcorn nearby using a machine that issued an explosive deafening noise when the corn popped. Before each Bang, he gave everyone in the vicinity fair warning, so they could prepare and cover their ears. The regular discharges were an added discomfort as I reached the end of Chapter 2: The Fear of Failing amidst a muggy sweat that sheathed my entire body.
Umbrellas were everywhere. Such a wonderful multi-functional security device is the umbrella. Helpful not only for deterring icy rain bullets, but also for fending off scorching sun blasts, and in one-on-one, you could do worse off without such a tool handy. I didn’t have an umbrella. My lack spoke ‘foreigner’, along with my hairy legs. The canopy provided some comfort, but not enough. There was a puddle of sweat at my feet. At home, I would have been taken for a pisser.
I closed the book. I gave up on it. I didn’t want to read about death and dying anymore. I got up and gave the book to the popcorn man, and he smiled and nodded his head graciously. Returning to my table, I heard crunches under my feet, worms lying beneath me baked to black crisp breaking into little pieces.
I had another cold beer, and some shrimp, and white rice, and today I am the worm.
