His leather looked liquid, like the Pennzoil he put in his motor. He had the faintest scent of gasoline about him, just enough to make it alluring. He worked out in the cold so he was always scarved, with an uncle joe cap on top that fell over his eyes with exercise.  He was soft spoken, but his voice was deep, gravel but not loose, fused like it is after a rain. When he drank he drank good whiskey, and he held the shot delicately, like an egg between his insanely beat-up fingers. If you caught him there he’d buy, and not say much, like he was glad for the company but understanding of its limits. In those days the taverns kept a window or door cracked to provide an exit for the stogie smoke, and he always sat near a window or a door. I guess it makes sense then, that I never saw him without a jacket, without that jacket I’m sure, the liquid black Pennzoil wrap that took him with it as it disappeared into the darkest part of the night.

-Danny Grosso

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