When you look at this man now, you cannot help but compare him to dull rusted blades, a worn out weapon that no one bothers with anymore. People who use to know him would describe him as a man with sharp, keen eyes, and a personality that can kill. Nowadays people fear even making eye contact with him. If it wasn’t for his humble home, he would blend right into the array of homeless, as he sits by his front porch all day. The pounding heat from the scorching sun does not seem to bother him. Slouching and sunk into his chair he holds a cheap beer in one hand, and a cigarette in another. Everyday his sweat drips onto his white muscle shirt from his chin and he sits there emotionless. As it stains his shirt yellow, he counts himself lucky if his cigarettes only leave a gray smug on his clothes rather than burn holes. Fading in and out of consciousness it seems as if he only had the cognitive ability to toss out his empty beer can into the yard, crack another one open, drop his cigarette butt onto the floor, light another one, but only to rest them in between his fingers again. As if he was testing which would come first, a soft wind that will ash his cigarette for him, or a twitch in his muscles strong enough to do the deed.
At times he ponders, what is the difference between the ones pushing up daisies, and barely breathing garbage? Before he had more time to develop those thoughts, they were soon snuffed out. For it was too much effort to put into his meager life, and the action that would make the difference was too much to carry out, so he just decides to remain at the bare minimum he maintains so well. Not even rodents or pest stay around his lot. His foul stench offends all who passes by him. Usually Isaac does not get many visitors, but on this unusually stale afternoon his eyes start to come into focus when his ears picked up the clink of his metal gate. “The wind has not stirred so was it a stray dog?” he thought. When his vision became clear his eyes caught the glisten of the shiny beer car ushered to his face.
“For you,” The offering hand said as she handed him the beer. Releasing the pressure, Isaac hears the familiar pop as the bubbles escaped. The fresh cold liquid was rushing down his throat. After a big gulp, he finally looks at the person in front of him and utters,
“It’s not lukewarm.” His expression didn’t change but it looks like his eyes had a faint smile in them. His hand was not use to holding the unusually cold drink so he set it down in his cup holder. After taking a puff of his cigarette he finally offers his guest an abrasive greeting,
“What business does a woman in a suit doing out in the grimy slums?”
“To visit the prestigious Isaac Crimson of course,” the new face announced with a politician’s smile.
“I should have just stuck with my lukewarm beer,” Isaac said unamused as he started to lose interest in his scenery again.
Dreaming Above The Clouds 