Pridian

Wind blew the heavy rain into obsidian waves over the asphalt. We ran, heads huddled under jackets, into the warm restaurant. Walking to the hostess, I saw a man sitting alone with his head bowed over his knees. His clothes were filthy and an old beanie atop his head had a hole on top where greasy, gray hair stuck out. The rings around his dirty fingers were tight and tarnished.

“Sir?” He turned his tawny-red eyes on me. “Would you like to eat with my friend Sarah and I? On us.”

He blinked, looked forward, then slowly turned his head back to me saying, “Ya want me, to sit in d’ere an eat ata table with ya?”

“Yes, sir.”

Smiling slowly to himself, he stood.

Sarah and I followed the hostess to our table while the man slightly hobbled behind. All eyes in the restaurant followed us. Diverse glances were cast our way and with each one a discreet judgment.

After we were seated, menus in hand, the man began to speak.

“Ya know, I don’t do to bad sittin’ in front of dis restaurant. I mean, people give me der leftovas with a few dead presidents… it all adds up. Ya just gotta know how to look.”

He took off his black beanie, sifted his brown fingernails through his long-since-washed hair, so it stood obnoxiously astray. Then he proceeded to give himself and dazed look while making unintelligible sounds.

Sarah and I laughed.

The bum continued to entertain us, in his mumbled speech, awkward hand gesture way. We decided him a pirate, Robert the disgruntled pirate. Growing up his father used to shove him through windows of houses so he could run to the back door and let him in. They stole everything worth something in those houses.

In the middle of his animated story, he paused and looked down at his food.

“Ya know,” he started, “I caint remember da last time I’ve eatin ina restaurant.”

We laughed, thinking it another joke.

“Na, I’m serious.” He looked to the ceiling and spouted dates to himself. “1980, 1985, 1983, 1987, 1989. Yep, 1989.”

We stared at him.

“An now I’m sittin here, eatin good food, wit two beautiful young women… Say, can I see dat knife.” He grabbed it and began to open his coat.

“Not on my watch,” Sarah said.

The bum farced disappointment, then excused himself to the restroom.

“Fascinating man.”

“Yeah, out of all the bums out there, we pick ourselves a funny one,” Sarah joked. “I am going to go pay for the food now, I don’t want him to see our wallets out. He is a bum after all.”

I watched her walk to the register and read her gestures as she explained to our waiter the situation. Something was confusing to her, she had that look.

“They compted our meal.”

“Huh?” I murmured.

“They said, ‘You two took a bum out to dinner. We, in return, are paying for your meal.’”

I don’t really understand why I enjoy listening to the blades of the Police Department Helicopter slashing though the air. Maybe it is the thrill of a potential crime or criminal so close to me. Or maybe it is the safe, comfort feeling I receive when I know they are out protecting and guarding.

“Do you hear that?” She asks, huddled in her pink and blue quilt.

“How could I not? I wonder what is going on,” I say, sitting on my bed.

“They are right over us, circling. Maybe someone was shot dead in our apartment complex and now the killer is hiding in our neighbor’s porch!”

“Perhaps. Or maybe a University student stole some Macs from the lab and is now running for safely in the haven we call Pinewood Apartments,” I provide with sarcastic eyes.

We are quiet for a moment. Listening to the aircraft’s drone grow louder as it fly close to our homestead, only to fade again in a rhythmic pattern.

“Well, I’m going back to bed,” she turns and walks back to her room, quilt dragging.

I lie back down and fall asleep to the comforting, yet eerie noise of sky watch.