Book Club

The rain had created...no, that's not quite right. Because of the rain, there was no one sitting by the river; despite the newly constructed awning keeping a large section of the seating dry. He could be alone, he could read. He didn't have to wish that bitch with the cell phone would stop talking so loudly, because she wasn't there. He felt like he was in a bubble, he could see the rain coming down all around him, yet he was dry. He doesn't quite remember what the other man said.
"Hey, that's a good idea," or, "That's a nice spot," something like that. Someone had come into his bubble. He had to look all around to find the man seated above him, some seven rows up. He wished he had just ignored him.
"Yeah, it's nice," he yelled back, or something like that. He imagined sitting and reading a book, that read Engage Me, for a front cover. He tried to remember if he'd ever tried to talk to someone while they were trying to read. Yes, he had.
"But, I think they paid too much for it, I mean...how many people will it really keep dry?"
He wanted to read, and didn't know how to answer the question. So he turned his head and yelled syllabic sounds that he hoped the river would carry off. That seemed to be the end of it. Thank God.
He opened his book again, and fantasied about being hit in the back of the head with a 2 x 4. He wondered if he would hear the man, if he chose to come down to him. It was an idle fantasy, he did not fear the man who he now shared his dry island with.
The book he was reading was about soldiers in Iraq. Or probably Afghanistan, he couldn't keep it straight, no matter how smart he looked in his glasses.
There were three positions he sat in. When he began, he would stretch his legs out in front of him and let his feet dangle over. Then, after a few pages, he would draw his legs up and perch his book on his knees. Shortly before it was time to leave, he would scoot himself to the edge and let his feet rest on the row below him. Usually, with not enough time to start and finish a chapter, he would pull out his phone and delete a few emails, or read them. But usually delete.
It was time to go. He tucked his book beneath his arm and grabbed his umbrella. From that distance, the man looked like someone just getting out of the rain, so he waved at him. He wished he hadn't. He wished he had a sword.
"Hey, hold up, can I ask you a question?" or something like that, the other man yelled.
"Fuck," he said, not quietly, but knew the man couldn't hear him.
The other man started ambling down the rows, think a giant staircase, take two steps, then gently lower your leg down to the next level, again.
He did not move. He would not move to meet this man, the other man would have to come to him.
The man was now on the row above him, and he could see now the sickness in the other man's eyes. "You wouldn't be a guy to help somebody else out, if they were down on their luck? If somebody needed bus fare or something, are you?" or something like that.
"No." he replied.
Why don't I gut you right here you fucking waste, is what he imagined saying.
"I don't carry any cash," he continued.
"Oh, I gotcha, I understand," the other man said.
He imagined the other man with a swollen belly and sunken eyes. He imagined the other man leaning up against an adobe, mouth agape, a fly landing on his exposed teeth. This image did not match up to the reality of the other man, wearing a warm sweat shirt with a belly poking over his elastic waistband, carrying a half-empty-not-half-full Mt. Dew. He decided that the other man couldn't be that down on his luck, because there were not flies landing on his exposed teeth.
And as he walked away, back into the rain, done with whatever had just taken place, he felt sad because it had not occured to him to help the other man. He hadn't wanted to. He wondered how many down-on-his-luck's it would take to be that other man, he wondered what it was like to be hungry. He had never known.