The Coat
There is a large green coat that encompasses a bowlegged young man. In its pockets, there are many materials, but not what you'd find in standard coat pockets. No tissues, no pens or pencils, no gloves or even much money. No, here, in these coat pockets, was a story. It seemed that his childhood was but a stint in his past; as if he grew up too quickly. In the pockets was a set of keys to a 1969 Chevrolet Impala. Homogenously mixed in, there are small candy wrappers and lingering grains of salt. There are little boxes of matches and a lighter. The kicker is that this young man doesn't smoke; he knows better. His job can seem presumptuous when he first explains it, but anyone told will know otherwise once they need their asses saved. This job, he feels, is his duty, it's his sense of normalcy. But he knows it's not normal. Not at all. He was raised for this, a defender, and though he may seem rough around the edges, there will be, undoubtedly, a welcome place for him in the hearts of nearly everyone he meets.