We drive to Manchester. By the Sea, that is, and there's a white Honda CRV in the parking lot. The car a year or two old and out drops a man at a nearby trashcan. Picks through. Finds a bag of something. Chips. Or donuts. He hobbles to the car. And gets in. Drives 50 feet to the next can. I'm watching. And he notices. Episode of Six Feet Under lingering, the one where David gets carjacked, so I lock my door cuz I saw it on t.v. Johnny Cash on the radio sounding human and vulnerable, but I can't place the cover.
He picks up a quarter, or a nickel, from the ground and holds it up, smiling. I smile back. He keeps looking. Through the trash. Then a cop pulls up. Looks at me. Looks around. Starts eating a bagel. Cops eat bagels. I hold up my ice coffee, a kind of cheers, or salute. The CRV man drives to the next can. The wind blows. The leaves blow and fall. Cole and I stare at the empty park in front of us. We stare. And we stare. And we stare.
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