Snow capped, the Olympics pierced the morning clouds as I walked to church. Majesty.
I see some people in my neighborhood over and over. Though for the most part we've never spoken, they've become characters in this chapter of my story. This morning I've seen three of them whom I've not written about.
Fidgety Man: Stocky, bald, and gray goateed (my genetic future), he never stops looking around, as if for someone he's waiting to meet. Yet he's always alone. His lips move occassionally with half-formed mutterings. He doesn't seem completely out of touch so much as constantly anxious. His head moves like a pigeon's. I don't ever want to become him.
The Tattooed Lady: Long, curly hair with gray sneaking in up top, the Lady is reminiscent of a biker chick without the motorcycle. She wears glasses and has a solid build; her slightly beefy arms are strung with tattoos. I notice them because she often wears clothing that exposes her arms up to the shoulder. On her upper right arm is a tattoo of a woman (I don't know who it is) with the words "Jesus Died for Somebody's Sins...Not Mine" encircling it. I almost cry every time I see it. She's so wrong.
Homeless Otis Day: With the requisite trenchcoat and scarf, he reminds me of Otis Day (actually DeWayne Jessie, of Otis Day and the Knights, of Animal House fame-- I caught his sweat-soaked towel at a show at Fitzgerald's in Houston many moons ago). He is a vendor for Real Change, a homeless newspaper. Today he's with a forest green sports-jacketed father and his boy (who rides in the requisite three-wheeled red yuppie stroller when not toddling about). The little tow-headed lad is very happy to know HOD. I think I like him, too, but I haven't decided for certain yet.