Under the Overpass

They were bantering back and forth, which I suppose the definition of is,
the back and forth. I was listening sorta and exceedingly high.
The one guy, The Big Fella, appeared to be a tad agitated maybe.
At least his stance, gestures, and tone of voice indicated such perhaps.
He–The Big Fella–Was standing on this slant of concrete.
The other guy– We’ll call him The Smaller Guy–was hunker’d on the ledge next to me. The Smaller Guy, well…he’s the one rolled the joint.
The ledge was like the top of your play-ground slide, before you hit the down part.
Just enuf room for your butt.
Anyhow, it’d been just me and The Big Fella,
sitting on the ledge smoking snipes we’d scrounged from the cans in front of Denny’s, McDonalds, and Petro.
Well…maybe the Shell station as well.
Yeah, I remember the Shell station, cause I’d met a kid jugging gas there that morning
and they’d run him off. The people at the Shell station did.
Said they had Zero Tolerance for folks bum’n gas.
Kid was pretty good at it tho.
I’d watched him for a for about an hour from the tail-gate of his little truck.
I’d found about half a cigar and sat there, on the tail-gate of his little truck,
and puffed the cigar down. He got about half a tanks worth for they ran him off
and said see ya later.
Said he’d made all the way from South Carolina. “See ya kid,” I said.
Then I had to find another place to sit.

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