The Final Come Down Came

“I don’t need this,” I muttered under my breath.

I had barely sat down.  Hadn’t even had time to take the first sip of my coffee when this man planted himself in the chair directly opposite me.   It was the last thing I needed but I looked up at him. 

I couldn’t place him.  He was either working class or no class.  Muscular, but not in a symmetrical way.  It was easy to tell that his muscles did not come from long hours in a gym.  Rather, they most likely came from hard work, the kind you find on construction workers or on butchers.  He was as black as a moonless night in a NEPA-infested Lagos.  He looked to be on the disgruntled side of thirty.

His face had a sheen to it that could have been caused by sweat or too much Vaseline – or maybe both.  His hair was cut so low he appeared almost bald.  He had on a white Sean John t-shirt tucked inside of a black Sean John sweat bottoms.  His thin, black Sean John hooded jacket was unzipped.  Unlaced Timberland on his feet.  Two mobile phones nestled inside one rather large hand.  His other hand, the right hand, clutched a pink umbrella, and a zirconium stud was tackily stuck to his left ear lobe.  He wasn’t handsome.  If anything you could say that his features were working hard at staying away from full blown ugliness.  He smiled.  His smile was incredibly bright from immaculately set and sparkling white teeth.  That smile was very infectious.  So much so that I smiled back at him.   He misunderstood that.  “I didn’t catch your name,” he said.

“I didn’t throw it.”

Quite amazingly, his smile got even wider and brighter.  “Oh, ok, my bad. I’m Bruce McLeod.” 

His accent and lilt were from somewhere in the Caribbean but I couldn’t exactly tell which of the Islands.  “How are we today?” he asked.