Got my duffel bag between my knees and I’m watching the parade of humanity mixing it up for my amusement and education. This Greyhound depot is the old one on Spring Street, the 1958 model, complete with competing pimps with their entourage of painted sweeties of all shapes, sizes and ages, some of the bloated old girls who won’t be here next year, or maybe next month.

In front of me a black guy with a greasy back-pack that came from army surplus has tried to shift the pack from one shoulder to another and has dropped the load and the flap comes open and about ten wieners are rolling around on the nasty floor. He picks them up and jams them back inside the unclean pack and straightens his filthy fedora, which looks like it came from a trash can over on Central Avenue, hoists his load to his shoulders, and shuffles on out to nighttime streets where I hope he finds a safe spot to rest.

Soon my civilian life will begin and this memory will tuck away in a corner with the others that will be stories someday, to wait until called for duty.

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