The used up relic sat on the rooftop of the old Marconie building, with his legs hanging off the edge and holding a cane pole like he was fishing. He did it every morning. My mother would say, “Don’t stare at him.” as we were waiting for the bus, in downtown New Orleans.
I always imagined he was an alien because of the numbers tattooed down his arm.
Of all the things in my youth I don’t know why that one morning stuck out to me so much, but it will be forever burned in my mind. The air was warm piss smelling jello that rubbed everything. The sky was the color of hot cocoa in desperate need of some marshmallows. It seamed like everything else went off in the background, my mother crying, the grocer yelling about the president being shot, cars screeching to a halt, and all I saw was Mr Zeitgeist dropping his fishing pole.