Mixed bag . . .
Over the sidewalk and through the doors . . . to McDonald’s on Clark, a few blocks from the house, 11:30 or so yesterday. Place hopping, full of families, 50-ish cronies and others, chatting, laughing.
Beggar by the door, inside where it’s warm, quiet, reaching into bin as people dump trays on way out. Inspects items, in case something worth while.
I’d refused him a buck a day or so ago, we both then seated at counter near the door. Irish-looking guy, red-faced and roughly dressed but warmly enough and not tattered. 50-ish, bloodshot eyes. Not here, I’d said. On the street another matter.
Overhead Silent Night . . . ’round young virgin . . . sleep in heavenly peace.
Beggar man looks over at counter, where Mexican women, mamas the lot of them, work. As if called over. Returns shortly, holding something in hand, heads for door…
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