“Hey Mickey, how's life in the fast lane?”
“Shit man,” Mickey scratches his gray beard. “I ain't seen nothing fast around here that didn't have flashing lights on top. You know this neighborhood.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, looking in the direction of a long line of people waiting for food. “You hungry or just thirsty?”
“Yeah.”
“What you want to eat?”
“Something between two slices of bread. With some kick to it.”
“All right. Keep me company in line and you can order it your damn self.”
“Well thank you Mister White Man, for teaching me to fend for myself. You mighty gracious, son.”
“Fuck you, Mickey.”
“Not yet, Nate. I still got standards, low though they may be, they ain't sunk that far yet.”
“How's the neighborhood been lately?”
“It's old and falling apart, just like me. How you been?”
“My leg hurts. I think I got a messed up back. I been umpiring a lot of baseball.”
“Pussy.”
“Thanks for caring, Mick.”
“Don't mention it. You up next. Get me the spicy chicken sandwich and a beer and I'll forgive you for being so ugly.”
“You'd do that for me?”
“Well, a man named Dr. King once told me I'm supposed to be passively passionate about you good for nothing honkey, thieve motherfuckers, and I just figured I'd give you an opportunity to buy me a sandwich.”
“And a beer,” I said.
“Damn right, and a beer.”
“A spicy chicken, garlic shrimp dinner and two Budweisers please,” I said to the no-nonsense woman at the window.
I watched in slilence as she got the order together in less than two minutes.
“Here you go, Mickey,” I said, handing him a sandwich and a beer. “Now get a job you fucking bum.”
“I'll do that the minute you find some soul, you wooden ass white motherfucker.”
“Later, Mick.”
“Yeah, see you on the flip.”