(no subject)
'Man sitting at the bar, his long grasshopper legs tucked up on the support struts of the stool beneath him. He looks like the type that frequents this type of bar -- and worse. The kinds of places where gum isn't the only substance you have to worry about scraping off the bottom of your shoes after you leave.
He is tall and lean, with the kind of disproportion in his arms and legs that could be considered awkward, but somehow saves itself at the last second. 'Five, no, ten, no eleven o'clock shadow on his cheeks and jaw. His hair is shorn close to his head, military style, but there aren't any stars on this guy's shoulders. He's got a hospital bracelet on his right wrist, the word "MAYFIELD" printed across the top in gothic capitals. No, definitely not Army brass. 'Not even worth of a Presidential physical fitness award, especially if the cane is anything to go by.
There is a beer at his wrist and, judging by the watermarks on the sleeve of his shirt, it's not his first. A crumpled bus ticket sits on the bar on his other side. A one-way ticket. On the back, in some reedy Bic scrawl, the following message:
Physician, heal thyself.
Oh, har har.
He is tall and lean, with the kind of disproportion in his arms and legs that could be considered awkward, but somehow saves itself at the last second. 'Five, no, ten, no eleven o'clock shadow on his cheeks and jaw. His hair is shorn close to his head, military style, but there aren't any stars on this guy's shoulders. He's got a hospital bracelet on his right wrist, the word "MAYFIELD" printed across the top in gothic capitals. No, definitely not Army brass. 'Not even worth of a Presidential physical fitness award, especially if the cane is anything to go by.
There is a beer at his wrist and, judging by the watermarks on the sleeve of his shirt, it's not his first. A crumpled bus ticket sits on the bar on his other side. A one-way ticket. On the back, in some reedy Bic scrawl, the following message:
Physician, heal thyself.
Oh, har har.