Morning traffic loosens like mucus in the back of one’s throat. Box makes a right on Smithfield, a left on Third Street, and comes to stop at a pedestrian crossing zone. Box sees a bearded bear in a tight pair of jeans, tan work boots, and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. He stands at six-two and probably weighs one-eighty. All muscle with steel-hard n*****s. Crotch the size of a front-end loader. Big pink lips. No older than forty. His hair is a dark brown curl on its right side, an edgy undercut style that is half-shaven down the middle on its left side. The man holds a white hardhat in his left hand and an aluminum lunch pal in his right. His arms are decorated in tattooed sleeves: smiling devils, smoking pistols, a winking leprechaun, a bloody heart, skulls, and other dark-themed etchings. No u
