Firepole

                                           Fire Pole
                      (Fire Pole will first appear in the July, 2007 issue of Secret Attic)


         A balding man of slight build sat on the park bench.  Taking off his thick black frames, he used his shirt tails to polish their heavy glass.  Holding them up to the sky he squinted, inspecting the efficacy of his cleaning.  He shook his head, sighed and returned to scrubbing the lenses. 
         “I do the same thing.”  A low gentle voice resonated next to him.  The balding man returned his glasses to their perch, enlarging his eyes as if he were on the other side of a fishbowl.
         A fat man with a thick, black van dyke sat next to him.  Perspiration jacketed his forehead and dripped down off his sideburns.  He smiled at the balding man as he took off his wire rimmed glasses and used his shirt to wipe off the droppings of sweat that obscured his vision.
         “I mean I take off my glasses and hold them at arms length away from my face.  And I squint trying to see if I cleaned them okay.”  He demonstrated as he spoke.
         The balding man half smiled and looked away, as he fell into a shallow pit of self-consciousness, realizing the irony of that action.
         A breeze eased past him, downwind of the bearded man, washing him over with the pungent aromas of sweat, garlic and ‘Aqua Velva’.
         They sat silently for a few moments not looking at one another.
         “They always put their fingers on the scale,” the balding man finally stated.
         “What’s that?”
         “The butchers, the grocers, they always try to squeeze you by putting their finger on the scale.  I caught another one trying to screw me just yesterday.”  With a jolt the balding man’s brow twisted as he struck a pointing finger at the bearded man.  “And I said, ‘Hey you tool, get your hand off the fuckin’ scale!’”  His features quickly relaxed and his point fell to his lap.  “I think I scared him.  He apologized up and down claiming it was an accident, and threw on a little extra after he rung it up.”
         “Yeah,” the bearded man concurred.  “I know what you mean.  They’re always trying to get away with that old trick.  Ya know another thing is like when you tell them you want a pound.  They make sure it comes out as close to exact as possible, pulling some off, putting some back on.  I feel like I’m in a game of Three Card Monte.  A slice or two either way makes no difference to me, but you have to keep an eye on them while their doing it.”
         “Yeah, same here, I’m just not going to pay for the thumb.”
         Silence befell them again, the balding man leaned back, his arms across his chest and his legs crossed.  The bearded man leaned forward, elbows to knees, tapping his fingertips together.  He glanced around, gauging their privacy and the amount of discretion he needed employ.  With a sigh he leaned back and raised an eyebrow at the balding man.  “I know a place where we could go,” he offered hopefully.
         For several moments the balding man sat silently, looking away.  Finally his head slowly nodded and his arms dropped to his sides.  “Alright,” he agreed from behind the fishbowl glass.  “But just watch your thumb.”
         “Not to worry,” the fat bearded man smirked.  “I don’t own a scale.”