Revitalize! The sign atop the the deli across the street flashed. It was a new advertising reminding all who saw that a new beverage named BRink was vital for daily success: Breakfast is the most important meal of the day , it read, so why not start with a little pep in your step!" the old vagrant on the bench chuckled. Ha! You try being cheerful with weather like this! Feels like we haven't seen the sun for days, eh kid?
He elbowed the young man standing behind him , just off to the side. Thomas was sullen and tall and not the least bit insterested in what the old bum was saying. Huh? Yeah, sure. He parroted mindlessly. He stared at his shoes as the constant rain fell atop them and seeped into the holes and broken seams that time and misfortune had conspired to invent. Thomas hated the old bum. Or maybe it was the shoes he'd hated. either way, he'd grown tired of seeing them both day after day. The old man continued on as Thomas pretend to listen. It was the decent thing to do. After all, Marty wasn't all that bad. He'd heard it was 30 years ago. Had it been that long? Thomas began to recount the tales he'd heard about him as he fiddled with the half-empty plastic lighter in his pants pocket. Yeah. Marty had been a hero once. Something of a neighborhood legend. Supposedly, sometime around the end of the Carter administration, he'd foiled some nefarious plot by a bunch of greedy white developers to swindle a piece of land from some ignorant old elderly couples, or the like. As it turns out this particular plot of dirt held historic value and selling it off would have dealt a "gut-shot to the community from which it would never have recovered." or at least that's the way Granbo, the guy who runs the deli tells it. It was this along with an assorted variety of other lies and local half-truths that Thomas didn't quite care enough to recount, that Marty had built his reputation on. What he was like back then? As the lord's fervor would have it, after all the pomp and celebratory hellos that had marked Marty's early bouts of heroism, his popularity, in line with his efforts, had eventually cooled off until he was forced to live like one of us: a faceless sap with a wife, a mortgage and a couple of kids. But that was 30 years ago, Thomas thought, and the man who gazed up at him now, half-drunk and rambling on wouldn't be able to pass for the hero's third-cousin, twice removed. Thomas pulled a cigarette from his pocket, flimsy and half-soaked from the worsening rain. Tucking it gently between his lips, he attempted to ignite it despite it's sad condition. Come one! he thought to himself. Just one drag! Then he'd be able to stand all the soaked shoes and rambling old men the world had to offer. Conventional attempts at lighting the damn thing notwithstanding, Thomas tried a third time, this time cupping his hands in front of his face, toking with every odd second as if he were suddenly holding a cigar instead. Thwarted, he pitched the singed remains along the road and into an awaiting gutter. Then that's when the mumbling began. But, to himself he thought, Is this it? Is this what becomes of heroes!? Still holding the lighter, he had to stop himself from indicating Marty by shoving his free hand into his pocket. He continued. Half-past 8 in the morning and already half in the bag and recounting old tales to disinterested 30 somethings or hell, anyone who would listen? Thomas recalled one morning he'd taken a cab to work and he'd sworn he'd saw the old drunk regaling a stray dog with his tales, while a giddy smile engulfed his face. Despite his thoughts though, Thomas had only managed to mumble a few words loud enough for Marty to overhear, and even in his beer-soaked state, there was no mistaking them for flattery. it was evident the lanky kid had heard enough, Marty considered, so he ended his speech with his usual farewell and added: " Sorry to keep you. You being a working man and all. Wouldn't want you to miss your bus, listening to my ramblings. Marty flashed him a smile which, still sullen from the nose up, Thomas returned in kind. Sensing a new middle-ground, the drunk nearly began to recount an old work story, before cutting himself off and returning to his bottle. Alone at last, at least with his thoughts, Thomas began to reconsider his previous outburst as a feeling of guilt slowly crawled up his throat. Was he too hard on the old guy? he thought. Yeah the old man's earful was worth a cigarette or two, but could you blame him? His life had turned to shit before he got smart enough to do something about it, and his stories were all he had left. If going on about his past glories brought him peace, who was he to take that away from him - even if he had to feign interest? Resigned to the roll of evil-doer after having thwarted the nostalgic efforts of a old glory-hound, Thomas began to settle into the cold confines of the bus stop when a sudden surge of panic brought him back to life. It was something the old man said. He looked at this watch. Half past 8. The bus was late. And he would be late too, but strangely he didn't care. What troubled him the most were his own words this time: "Is this what becomes of heroes?" He felt his confusion subside as he stubbornly withdrew another cigarette from his inner jacket just as soggy as the last one. As time would allow, Thomas would only get 3 strikes on his plastic lighter this time before lifting his head to see that the crowded 8:15 bus had finally arrived. Returning the lighter, he took a long glance at the smoldering butt in his hand before expertly extinguishing it's cinders and carefully placing it back in the pack with the other soaked candidates. As he stepped onto the bus he mumbled to himself. "No. Only the lazy ones."
