Off Season

Off season, Myrtle Beach. 

I went for a walk alone 

to a diner with an ocean view.

A shaggy haired, 

bearded, beach bum 

in ripped jean shorts,

a brown, tattered wool sweater,

and broken sandals,

followed close behind me.

My waitress took me to my table,
while the hostess tried to throw him out.

My waitress spoke up

and got him a table too

next to mine.

Got him some coffee, and dinner rolls.

She took my order 

and said, “If he bothers you, 

let me know.

He doesn’t have to stay.

I just feel bad for him.

See him around sometimes.

Sleeps on the beach.”

As she walked away, 

he followed her with his gaze. 

He turned to me and rolled his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I’m schizophrenic and sometimes I hear angels.

Do you believe?”

“I did. But not anymore.”

“You should,” he said.

“I’m sorry. 

I know I’m crazy.

Angels know engines.

They saved my life once, you know.”

“How?”

“I was on a bus in Mexico. 

We were coming down 

out of the mountains

on this narrow, kinda-windy road,

when the engine caught on fire.

There was a lot of smoke

and the driver couldn’t see,

so he was swerving all over.

And that’s when the angels,

they said, don’t fear,

and in my mind,

they took apart the engine

and put it back together

while it was running.

We finally got to a place 

where we could pull off the road,

and everybody got out, but

by that time, the engine was fine,

you know?

The driver lifted the hood and 

there was still some smoke,

but he just kinda shook his head.

When he got back in 

the bus started right up.”

He turned away abruptly

when the waitress brought me a salad

and a cup of coffee.

She leaned in, and I could see

the black hairs growing 

from her mole.

She whispered, “Is he bothering you?”

“No.” I said. “He’s okay.”

She leaned back and smiled.

“You let me know if you

need anything else.”

“I could use some angels,” I said.

The waitress shook her head

“Can’t help you there.”

The man laughed.

“You’re crazy, man,” he said.