lunch break

I’d been feeling unsettled lately. Wondered if it had something to do with losing my watch the other week. I kept turning to my blank wrist, only to disappoint myself. I walked to Borders at lunch to read some Bukowski. It’d been a while. I strolled to the poetry aisle and fingered out Bone Palace Ballet. I read the first section without budging, poems about his 1930s childhood in Los Angeles. Spare and vivid, sloppy and neat. How he became a reader, a classical music-lover, pinpointing the moment he went from boy to man. “Can I help you find something?” a voice asked. I looked up, momentarily unsure where I was. There stood an eager bookstore clerk. I was curious why he’d interrupt someone obviously not browsing. Or did he detect something I was only vaguely aware of? That I was afraid I’d lost my way? I stared at him a moment and thought about my watch. “I’m all set, thanks,” I lied. I bought the Bukowski (you can never find him used) and headed out to Church Street. Scanning the brown brick pedestrian mall, I saw that most of the benches had been removed. No more denying the snow was coming. Down by a hamburger cart, I found a small two-seater. A man joined me. I read about strip joints and Venice beach while he forked bits of salad into his mouth from a foam container. He stood and tossed the rest in a nearby trashcan. A few minutes later, I left, too. And headed back to the office. “’tchout,” I heard a voice behind me mumble. I turned, and saw a grizzled old man in an electric scooter bearing down on me. He was grumbling something, his grey sweatshirt stained and baggy. My first thought was to ignore him and let him pass. But I leaned down close to his doughy, stubbled face.
“What’s that?”
“Didn’t want to hit you,” he said.
I could smell his breath, see the watery grey of his eyes.
“Thanks, old man,” I said.
And watched him turn down College Street, rolling uninterrupted toward the lake.
I knew I’d found something but wasn’t sure what. And it didn’t matter, names were no longer necessary.