.1.

It all began with a number carved on the restroom stall wall. Out of all the numbers I have seen carved in like manner, for some reason I had to call this one. I remember it was a particularly boring day. I was walking, nowhere in particular, and time was then a matter of indifference.

I had chugged a gallon of water that day and measured how long it took me to empty that gallon. God… it was a boring day! Anyhow, I drank the water and went out for a walk. It was a hot, muggy Thursday morning, the streets were full of dust and cars and sweat. An old lady, crossing the street, took a fistful of insults from a guy in a pickup truck waiting for her to cross. I remember her face very well. And the driver’s face, too. Everything from that day I haven’t forgotten. I can’t forget.

I remember the lady’s face. She looked at the driver, a redneck wearing a red cap, blond sparse mustache and squint-eyed, gold tooth in mouth dull from chewing tobacco, spit-faced bastard in bloody plaid shirt, confederate flag faggot hiding beneath the bars and stars. She looked at him, stopped on the road, and then at me. I had never seen such sadness in a pair of eyes. Not even in the eyes of the junkies standing in front of the local 7-11’s asking for quarters 24/7… Not even there.

Her eyes were gray and saddened by the ignorance. I felt reprimanded under the stone gaze. She busted those marbles at me and my pump machine clenched in my chest. My reflex reaction was to nod, and toss an ambiguous look at the bastard in the truck. At the same time he looked at me, a muddy smirk in his spit-face, daring me to act.