In this town caught between village and city, the rejected child saunters across a room to a weathered window. This being the fifth day after having made his home in what was once a second rate funeral home, now four years since condemed. Across an unpaved road, hardly wide enough for a car, lies a cemetary, abandoned after the funeral home went out of business. The room around him smelled of stale booze and weed.
He wasnt born into money but always had enough to eat. His mother was like most, in that she worried while he was away. He always wondered why she cried less when he came home smelling of a good time, than when he didnt bother to come home. His third or fourth “father” always gave him the same scoul, while on more than one occation had suggested him leaving.
Spitting on his sleeve he wiped away two horizontal patches of the whitish grime on the window, the stubborn green spots stuck to the glass but were more of a distraction than an obstruction to what lay beyond the glass.