Milk and Whiskey
I drove slowly down a boulevard of the neighborhood on a cold Saturday afternoon. The forecast called for light snow. I passed a closed urgent care center with a grim concrete façade. It certainly wasn't inviting.
Bob Seger played on my CD player. No one writes songs like he once did. At least that I hear, but then again, I never hear any new music unless I find old music in thrift stores that I've never heard. There's still a lot of it out there.
Something arrested my attention in front of the urgent care center. A group of homeless men wearing thick coats and stocking caps sat around a circular concrete table. Several shopping carts full of possessions and cans and bottles and bicycles with jury-rigged contraptions to convey cans and bottles stood nearby.
I put the group's number at four or five. On the table rested a gallon of milk, red party cups and bottle of whiskey that looked like Jim Beam, but I was driving so I couldn't tell for sure.
The men were gesticulating, drinking and talking.
I slowed down. I considered turning off a side street and parking the car. I considered walking up to the men and asking if could join them and talk over milk and whiskey.
But I did not stop.