Blue Straggler
By Kathy Lynn Harris, Copyright ©2004
From Chapter 9
The man, I see as he gets out, is taller than most, probably more than six feet, and thin--but not scrawny like Rudy. His long, black hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and his face is covered in the shadow of a new growth of beard. He's wearing a gray flannel shirt, tails untucked and flapping in the breeze, and a pair of loose blue jeans, frayed at the bottom.He saunters over, hands in the front pockets of jeans. He turns the red, soiled baseball cap he's wearing backwards around to the front. "Ace Propane" is embroidered across the area above the brim.
"Can I help you with something?" His voice is low and raspy, like he's smoked a pack a day and drank thick, black coffee since he was 15.
I'm immediately aware of my face--already red from the sun--and how my clothes--especially the no bra part--must look. And I'm aware of a piece of dry skin dangling at the tip of my nose, swinging in air like I'm shedding.
"I'm looking for you, I think," I say. "And I got stuck," I motion back toward the car.
"That can happen," he says, offering me his hand.
As we shake, I notice he has a tattoo of an eagle on the top of his wrist. His hands are rough and calloused, like my father's.
"I'm looking for an Adam."
"Well, you found one," he says.
