Nonfiction

Tonight, at the store, I bore witness to a fascinating scene. I waited in line to purchase my goods behind a man and his family. I watched patiently as he had not one, but two credit cards declined. He removed his hat to scratch his head unsure of how this could have happened, and it was obvious that his hair had not been washed in quite a while. He tried to explain his situation to the cashier, but he was hard to understand due to his drawl, his missing teeth, and the large dip of chewing tobacco under his lip. On his upper arm was tattooed, in poor calligraphy, the name of CHRIST. I could clearly read this tattoo because he had, of course, cut the sleeves out of his Harley Davidson tee-shirt. He hadn't done this to show off his muscle, but his abundant flab. His obese child watched on obliviously as his fat, exasperated wife dug through her purse looking for yet another credit card.

Rather than wait for the rest of the scene to play out, I changed lines. But I couldn't help but walk away with a grin on my face. Because the baseball cap he removed to scratch his filthy head was patterned with houndstooth, and bore a crimson "A".

War Eagle.