richard and tony
if you are offended by foul language, you may want to skip this one.

richard hobbles up to the bar on a pair of crutches, some sort of make-shift cast on his left leg. his clothes are dirty and a thick layer of stubble covers his face. tony stands directly behind richard, silent. he is a good foot and a half shorter than richard, but looks more clean-cut and tidy.
"can you believe what these fuckers did to us?"
"no," i say "it's pretty hard to accept."
"who the fuck do they think they are coming in here and fucking with us like this?"
"yea, it's really quite sad."

normally, i will make efforts to avoid talking with drunk, homeless people. well, i'm assuming that richard is homeless because of his appearance. tonight, however, i feel like richard has as much right to conversation with another human as anyone in this bar. "are you living on the streets?" i ask him.
"yeah. can i have a cigarette?"
"sure."
"my dad died last year. he was the only person i had. he was brilliant man. he knew numbers and shit. he could call up anyone he wanted. he was the only person i had in my life, now i don't have no one."

i offer tony a cigarette.
"aw, he don't smoke man."
tony just nods in agreement, and walks around the corner of the bar to sit next to richard. richard talks further about his father. the man with connections; with all the numbers. "i call these people, man, and they tell me they don't have a job. they say they don't know who i am. i tell them 'well, do you know robert meyerson? he's my dad.' and all of a sudden they're offering me jobs and shit."

richard's a welder. "what kind of welding do you do?"
"aw, man, i'll weld the shit out of anything. i can do shipping and receiving. ain't that right pancho?" he says nudging his friend.

rob, the bartender comes over and asks if these guys are bothering us. "you want me to kick them out?"
"no, they're all right. we're just talking."
"what do you do tony?"
"he does body work, man. he can fix any fucking car out there."

"i can build you a fucking car, man." tony finally chimes in, slurring his words together.
"what do you do?" richard asks me.
"well, when i have a job, i'm a graphic designer."
"computers and shit? fuck, man, that's what got us into this shit. fucking computers."
"i disagree"
"fuck, tony, these guys aren't going to buy us any drinks, let's get out of here."

god bless you, richard and tony.