G: Today's Event

"What do you do?" he asks.

"Insurance," I answer, "Up on the second floor."

"Ah. I don't think I could do that." He sucks on his cigarette and
looks off into the distance. His comment is an opening.

"Why is that?" I ask, taking the bait. I check him out: thin, too much
hair gel, surly. He's never been taught how to shave.

"Drag racing," he says, "Got caught."

To myself: "How very cryptic." To him: "Drag-racing? Isn't that
dangerous?"

"Yep. That's why it took all of the thirteen-thousand dollars I had in
my car to pay the legal fees. Still lost my license, though."

"Thirteen-thousand? I didn't know racing was that lucrative."

"Luca-what?" he asks, turning towards me. His eyes are dull under heavy
lids. Still a kid, but a thug nonetheless.

"Lu-cra-tive. It means you make a lot of money."

"Yep, that I did." He puffs up suddenly, proud that such a word would
apply to him, and my heart almost breaks.

I cannot help myself: "You might be just the person insurance companies
are looking for."

Now he turns completely and looks at me, his eyes a bit brighter. "Me?
Why?"

"Well," I say, thinking fast, "You must know a lot about cars.
Insurance companies need that. And traffic - it's important to know
about traffic in insurance."

"I guess that's true," he says. He's getting into it. Behind those eyes
he is picturing himself at a desk, perhaps talking on a phone. He has a
nameplate on his wall.

"Well, back to the grind," I say, putting out my cigarette. I need to
get away, to go back inside, before I see too much. That is what always
happens, and then I am lost.

I forget to say good-bye, and tell myself it doesn't really matter.