Jeff (an excerpt)

July 16, 2005

He said he had the gift after I shook his hand.

There was an out-of-town accent:

"My name is Jeff."

Winn-Dixie had a bit of skeptic on the front of

her property, but there we met.

Forward, I was but uneven with his face, bearing a

trembling stance.

To myself, "Can I trust the All Mighty to corrode

my concerns about a new face, and protect me as

I clutched the far-side of my grocery basket?

I trust you, Lord."

He said he just had to comfort me, for there was

something about me.

He noticed my doubt and caution.

"Man, I'm just goin' give it to you straight, man,

and be honest..."

I was immensely tight with the pause of readiness, if

self-defense would become prevalent, but there was

a little embarrassment, though I listened.

His twenty-something handsome features correlated

stunningly with his slightly over 6-foot frame, and as

I studied the smooth, unblemished driftwood that was

the shade of his skin, while I waited his narration, I told

myself that, "Yeah, I'll just keep my eye on 'im this

way."

He was dressed for the humidity that day, and despite

his lean muscularity, he was easily identifiable as a

jock, before he even mentioned it, looking awesomely

luscious in man's laziest apparel: a bleach-white tank

top, exposing the youth and strength of his arms, saggy,

grey sweatpants with dangling white drawstrings, the

bottom legs scrunched to his knees, and crew socks

matching the retina-frying brightness of his tank, and his 

dingy sneakers were no surprise, while his left hand clutched

a thin dark jacket, as if to say he was expecting the temp

to lower at night, in the middle of an Alabamian July.

"I've been here for over three months, and even though

the missions here are nice, they have same problem as

any other, anywhere else: too many bodies to provide

for. I'm not saying that I'm better than my situation, but

every now and again, it'll be nice to stand as a man

if I wasn't always standing in line, waiting for another

sack of something provided by unknown hands; it

makes me feel as if I'm not trying hard enough to get

back on my feet."

All I could do was reply with a cool hand "I here ya, man."

He furthered his examination of me, and continued with a

softer flow.

 

© 2005 Jarrod C. Lacy