Per the invitation: http://talknsmack.wordpress.com/
Old Chopper, they called him. Reminded them of that heap of metal off Birch St near the Rhoades’ place.
Sat every day looking the same. Same sour face, same stubble that mysteriously never grew nor was shaven. Same unkempt shirt and hair. Growing the same age old every day, holding the same half glass of lemonade. Bottom lip jutting forward, refusing to reveal what is surely a toothless, or at least un-pretty grin, if anyone had ever seen it.
Old Chopper. Maybe they gave him the same name as that old truck (the one by the Rhoades’ place) because we have the same relationship. Our lives move but they still sit there, aging imperceptably, as if time was immaterial to those who stop moving. We don’t trust him quite enough to have a name like Bob or Paul. He has been nobody’s brother to us. Just Old Chopper, sitting on his porch, serving witness to those of us who busy about living.