5.08.2009

Cleveland's the man

Tim Cleveland wasn't a very tall man. He stood 5' 10" with his favorite shoes on, and he had no noticeable stoop. It must've been his buzz cut that made him look taller. He wasn't very old either, unless one considers fourty-seven too far into middle age, and his waist size was still the same as it was when he was twenty-something–33".

He patiently waited in front of Clarice's Boutique under the overhang on that cold, November morning in his hometown of Oakwalla, Wisconsin, for the 8:15am downtown bus. He had to bend down a little to stand under the red and white canvas sagging under the weight of the water which had gathered from the overnight rain. The wind was cold but there was no snow, which was strange for that time of year. Just gray clouds that scooted across the sky creating quick cracks of cold blue which would peek through. It scoured through the crop on his head and made his cheeks feel like stiff cardboard. He pulled the collar on his jacket up tight around his neck and wished he had worn a scarf.

The cold made it feel like hours until the bus finally arrived. It pulled up with a squeal of brakes and a cloud of exhaust, plowing through the gutter water. The doors opened and Tim climbed up the steps, his rubber soles squeaking and the leather uppers creaking, slid his plastic pass through the reader, and made his way down the middle aisle, past the lady with her sniffly brown and white poodle, to an empty pair of seats near the back.

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