Pap.
Not “Pappy”, not “Paps” - Pap.
The thin letters embroidered on his
nylon jacket fit the grizzled, white whiskered face.
“I wonder what his story is,” I
had quietly asked by brother.
“I think he's a ship captain,” my
brother answered after a moment's consideration.
“Yeah, but only something small –
like a tug boat or a ferry.”
“Yeah.”
Sure, there were no real waterways
within miles of us that would require the service of a professional
seaman, but this didn't deter further speculation on our part as to
the genrleman's profession. We wondered why, of all places, he was sitting by
himself at a Wendy's with only a small coffee in front of him.
He never moved, except to take a sip of
what was certainly room tempurature joe. He'd been sitting there
since before we ordered, and remained when we'd left.
Questions still come to me sometimes.
Who was Pap? Why “Pap”? Who bought the jacket? What does he
really do?
I guess I'll never know.
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