“Out, George!” yelled my boss to the man at the end of the counter.
That closing time ritual went on as long as I worked at the ice cream store.
“Who is that guy?” I asked one day.
Every day he’d order a single coke, then sit there, eyes down, saying nothing.
Out of the St. Louis cold, I supposed.
“George? Some guy who lost his brother in the war. Now he wanders the alleys at night looking for him.
He’ll be out there in the daytime too, once the weather gets nice. Guy’s crazy.”
Some years later I saw George again.
Walking in an alley.
Looking for his lost brother to come home.