She’s dead. His eyes tell the whole story, his eyes and the crazy eyes of his five year old son. His feet are weary and there is 4 years worth of dirt underneath them.
Always smiling, his eyes are the only give away. No family now, they’ve all left him alone with his son. He’s in need of friends.
I can’t be Jobs friend, I talk too much. Similarities flow through his veins and the veins of my ink pen. I shutter sometimes.
Do I make you laugh? I try to make Job laugh. I try to make his son laugh as we play with the race cars and Legos. He tells me play dough is better, and I agree.
“Where you going next?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” says Job, “Maybe up north where it’s cold. Some family lives there. Maybe just east to the desert, some family there too.”
“What are you going to eat?” I ask.
“Not peanuts,” says Job, “I’m tired of selling them and my son can’t eat them.”
I want to have him stay, I really do, but what do I say? I mean, what’s appropriate at a time like this? We just show our family is fantastic and ask him to eat with us. We know he’ll leave. We know what he will say.
His son speaks too loud. Job would work on that— will work on that— once he finds the time. He needs 4 or 5 hours at the office first.
Excuse me while I pick out a movie and flavored popcorn. It’s just one of those days where life happens to other people and I just sit on my hands and laugh at it all going by so quickly.
Is that what you’re afraid of mrs. Rogers? I promise I’ll stand up before it’s gone.
Says 