3am, half lit, about broke and somewhat slightly dazed, jumping on the bus would be the best idea I had all evening. It was a slow night for ideas. I made my way on to join the other late night sojourners. From the looks of everyone they seemed like they had nowhere to go. They probably thought the same of me.
I took a seat in the back and bought a pack of Russian cigarettes off a homeless man for $2. They’re called Sheriff. They suck. They burn fast and taste sour and metallic like rotten lime juice. He wouldn’t tell me where he got them from, just that there were more where they came from if I ever needed them. We talked about the toughest town in America. He wanted to give me his contact information so I gave him a pen and he wrote down a series of unintelligible scribbles and 666 around a sextagram on the inside of an AA meeting directory and handed it to me. I thanked him, wished him well, told him I’d know how to summon him if I needed to and got off a stop after the one I intended.
~~ Photo and Story by Steve E. Normal
Tagged: 666, bus, cigarette, fiction, flash fiction, late night, lime juice, mini fiction, sextagram, sheriff, short fiction, smoke, SteveENormal
