(no subject)
"There he is again," the old man thinks. Sitting on a porch swing, he watches the boy walk past his house, as he does each morning. He thinks of him as "the boy" but he must be in is early 30's. The boy waves each time he crosses the street, walking towards the sidewalk that leads uphill until the boy is out sight, behind neighbor's trash cans and unkempt shrubbery, but the man on the porch swing only stares at the boy in his frayed brown pants and dark hooded jacket for a moment. The boy always has ear bud wires dangling beneath the jacket's hood, so there's no point in speaking. Surely the blaring music would drown out any "Good morning," and a wave, well that's inviting friendship and the old man wants no part of it. Let the boy wave as he crosses the street. Maybe one day, as he waves while crossing the street he'll not notice the speeding car going downhill. That would be something. The old man would say, "Good morning. You should look both ways from now on," The boy passes safely and is out of site, his top 40 hits blaring. The old man diverts his attention back to the passing traffic. It's nothing against the boy, but it's early morning, too early for friendly greetings. Half asleep by the slow back and forth motion of the swing he stares at the cars passing, most likely on their way to work. He's waiting for a car wreck. It's a ritual. The coffee, the porch swing, and the waiting. Why he would want to witness a catastrophe, he doesn't know. "Maybe today," he thinks. He would settle for something as simple as a fender bender, no injuries. Insurance is exchanged and the vehicles go their separate ways. But he has seen those particular incidents on several occasions and now he's ready to see the collision. To be a witness to such an act would enliven him. He has his coffee. He has his porch. And he has view of the busy road. If a tragic wreck were to happen, he would call 911, explaining the situation calmly. "Two cars collided. There's smoke and both cars are pretty smashed up. You better send someone soon," He would give the address, then sit back on his porch swing, swaying calm and slow, his mug still in hand. Moments later an ambulance would arrive, police cars, and a fire truck. He would hope someone would need the jaws of life to pry an overturned car open, pulling a bloody and unconscious body from the wreckage. They would be placed on a stretcher, and immediately hauled into the ambulance, lights flashing then speeding off with sirens blaring. The other car's door opens easily enough and the driver stumbles out, bloody lacerations on his face from broken glass, but aware of what has happened. The man on the swing waits for questions. "What did you see?" And suddenly the old man, staring at the passing cars, his hands hot from the mug of freshly brewed coffee would have no answer. "I saw a boy walking across the street. He was listening to music, you know, one of those gadgets with the tiny headphones. He waved at me as he was crossing the street. I waved back and kept an eye on him to make sure he made it across safely. That's when I heard the crash. I'm not sure how it happened, 'cause I was distracted, but it looked awful. If that boy hadn't been there I'd been able to seen it all happen," The old man waits for those speeding cars to crash. He doesn't know why and that scares him. But there's always the boy. "What did you see?" officer so-and-so would say. "Just the boy, walking uphill,"