The Man at the Mattress Store

I had to swing by Eckerd's yesterday afternoon to refill some medication. Nope, not my anti-depressant, but another "fixer-upper" I won't go into. See, they used to just call some pills "uppers." But who wants to say "uppers?" Now, "fixer-upper," yeah boy. That's okay.

Shoot, we're eating nothing but poison these days. No wonder everybody's mental. Don't get me started on what we've done to God's good earth. Being the highest members of the food chain doesn't entitle us to do whatever we want with His creation. 'Nuff said on that. I want to tell you about the man outside the mattress store.

He possessed one of those distinguished airs. Out of place on the gray concrete of the strip shopping center. It was easier to picture him in a kelly green golf shirt, stupidly preppy pants-embroidered with hippos or umbrellas or goldfish--and you have to admire a man that can wear such garments and still talk about things like business investments, the Orioles or the great steak he had the night before--stepping catlike on a fuzzy green up at Maryland Golf and Country Club. Although, the outfit he wore might have blended in perfectly during dinner at the club--his navy blazer, pressed khakis, school tie and white buttoned down. It was the way he wore them too, in the same comfort as an onion sports it's tawny paper.

But there he stood, smoking a cigarette, on the gray pavement outside a mattress store, taking a break from selling mattresses all day long.

And how did he end up there?

grace to you today,

lisa