Wally

Wally sang loudly in the listless traffic, slapping his meaty forearm on the door of his car, with the windows down in the sparkling spring air. No one liked traffic, or construction, but the sound of jack hammers was infrequent and the lively breeze scrubbed the exhaust from the blue sky. Wally found it easy to enjoy himself, to take it easy and relax, and even though impotent frustration was written on the faces of his neighbors, he was taking the stranded drifting of cars for himself.

He was bald with white and gray hair swirled in a fringe. His belly stood prominently in front of him, threatening to dip out of the bottom of his t shirts. Wally always wore khaki shorts with a dirty seat, and wide, broken down shoes. He bopped when he walked, a happy rhythm to his life. His hands were calloused and his hairy arms ready to scoop up oily parts and bags of dirt, his back ready to bend to shovel good, honest earth. When he was young he found he was happier to let jobs and people drift in and out of his life at their own pace.

Today Wally was working on his buddy's company car. His favorite Creedence song came on the radio and he turned it up, beating metal in time, carrying an embarrassingly toneless tune. He looked over and crooned to the woman in the next car, his small childlike eyes winking flirtatiously. She was horrified, stuck in traffic next to a hearse driven by a bum cheerily serenading the whole street, singing the wrong words, "Down on the corner...."