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| Author: |
Levi London |
| Dated: |
Friday, August 05 2011 @ 06:00 AM EDT |
| Viewed: |
342 times |
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The floor boards moaned a squeaking yelp as the old man lumbered across the floor. A fat, swollen hand shifted from his round side to his lower back where pain played the piano across his spinal cord. The persistent throbs made him grimace, and the few remaining yellow chicklets in his mouth ground upon each other.
The aggravated disks in his back were a result of his heavy load up top. Those plaguing pools of fat had wreaked havoc on the old man’s life since the third grade. They’d been pinched, pulled, squeezed and even bitten once so hard that scabs were required to heal the resulting wound. Yes, those breasts were a curse, first emotionally and now physically.
His sandpapered palm braced down upon the old wooden armrest for support as he gingerly lowered his obtuse caboose upon the cracked red leather cushion. The pillow exhaled one long breath as his body came to rest, then the old man’s lips did the same. The casual stroll across the room had left beads of sweat upon his balding brow.
Beneath the chair rested a pair of black, yet, formerly brown steel-toes that stunk of sweaty feet and jiffy marker. The laces were as frayed as the old man’s stringy white body hair that lay greasily upon his ever growing belly. Squeezing his plump tummy he leaned forward and tried grasping his shoes. The gut’s continual expansion came from each new six-pack the old man managed to acquire. Coincidentally, the last two six-packs were a direct acquisition from money saved on not having to buy a pair of black boots.
A single pod-less pea fell from within the old man’s snowy beard where it had rested for the past half hour. Hitting the ground the pea rode its downward momentum across the floor before resting a few feet from the chair. The look of defeat returned home to once again rest in the old man’s blue eyes.
“Fuckin’ kids,” the old man said emotionally, yet not with enough emphasis to warrant an explanation mark. Little in his life warranted one anymore, perhaps with the exception of how upset he usually got when he realized a seventh beer was not attached to the end of a six-pack.
He sluggishly pulled on his painted boots, and tied his frayed laces. The armrest once again did its share as it assisted the battered lower back in lifting him up. From the table beside the chair, the old man grabbed and pulled on a faded red coat and did up the belt. The same faded red could be found on the matching pair of pants that he was already wearing. Finally with a quick swoop, he snatched the red seasonal hat that also sat upon the old wooden table.
In the doorway appeared a set of uncaring eyes that belonged to the balding man who handled his pay cheques. “Hey old man, get your ass in gear, lunch break is over!”
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through the state of his body.