hub bub

so there's this guy. he sits contentedly upright, one hand nursing a large and as yet untroubled lager. he wears a tattered baseball cap, frayed at the peak so that small threads peered over into a lined face that creased at the mouth and eyes. he is still. perfectly. among the dust of the day and the moving clouds of blue cordite smoke, which eddied around the bar. the atmosphere seemed to slow around him. the hub bub of working men kicking back washed over him gently, almost imperceptibly. he was alone but not isolated. in every way he seemed to fit in. his faded jeans and sweaty shirt was the uniform of the place - the uniform of the outdoors, of people who worked long and hard in the cotton fields all around the district.

i caught his eye and he beckoned me over, pulling a stool closer and raising a large hand to the barmen. beer in hand, we talk.

i ask him 'what is truth'. he smiles and drinks a draught. he plays with the beer mat in his hand, flipping it dextrously from one finger to the next, back and forward, back and forward. i wait. he waits.

bottom of the eight and one down, bases loaded, the pitcher sends a fast one down the middle and the hitter obliges. the ball hits the bleaches high up left and two get home.

he turns towards me and fixes me with a long gaze. eventually he raises a hand leads my eyes to the room. i follow the sweep of his hand around the room - guys playing pool, shooting the breeze. and he said 'listen'