He pulled on his heavy, weather-beaten leather jacket. He wore it like a suit of armor. Back in the day, it was armor. Armor against fists from drunken crowd-surfers, armor against police truncheons, armor against hateful eyes, and armor against words dripping with disdain.

His bones creaked as he bent down to tie his heavy boots. He had once kicked a frat boy in the shin with these boots. A fight exploded, and they all ended up in jail for the night. His nose hadn’t been straight since.

He rubbed his bald, wrinkled head. He had once had a wonderful shock of bright green hair. Now he had nothing but wrinkles and liver spots.

He used to be a punk rocker. He used to hang outside CBGB and smoke cigarettes with his buds. They would sneer at the passing businessmen. Then, they would go inside and pogo and headbang to The New York Dolls, The Sex Pistols, and The Buzzcocks.

Now, he was an old man. All his old friends were either dead or senile. But he was keeping the dream alive. He smiled as he lit up a smoke.