Friday, December 29, 2006

Bones and I were sitting around the coffee shop, not doing much of anything.

Bones: "My kid aint spoke to me in 30 years" Bones began.

Midwest: "That seems kind of extreme, maybe he needs to get over whatever his problem with you is."

Bones: "Nah...I hit him around too many times, he got the right to not talk to me"

There really isn't much to be said after that. He looked genuinely sad. I don't think I'd ever seen remorse in his face. I had a mental picture of him in his prime; thin, wirey and violent- straight razor in his sock, which he still carries. I could imagine all the damage he had done yet all I could see before me was a thin old man, with faded tattoos, staring at his hands, regretting that he hit his son one too many times. He was no longer interested or able to hide the regrets and the loneliness.

Midwest: "The best thing he can do for himselddf is get over it"

Bones: "There are somethings you can never make right, that's just how that is, anyone tell you differently is lying or never did the things I done."

I no longer saw the old man who acquaintance, but a young punk who would have killed me over $20 or a misunderstanding. Bones was right, he should have died, he should never have lived past his prime. His hell is being as feeble and weak as the people he preyed upon.

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