I Used to Know A Guy Named Steve

I Used To Know a Guy Named Steve

Steve was a black man of thirty-five. He was greasy and had dandruff. He dressed very badly in black denim and cheap stretchy pullover shirts with three buttons center, top. He wore too much Drakar Noir in an attempt to cover up the smell of sweat that clung to him always in the south Texas heat. He’d had a bad acne problem in high school. The scars were quite deep. His thick glasses were always smudged with fingerprints because he was always pulling and pushing on them. It was a nervous habit. And when Steve talked about his demanding life in the music industry and how he’d just come from a rehearsal, it was all just bull shit. He was really quite convincing with the musical knowledge, but someone had seen him slinging burgers at Maggie’s Restaurant on Blanco. Said he works the day shift six days a week. Can’t say I was that surprised.  I never brought it up. Steve had enough strikes against him for one guy. I decided to let him live his dream with me since no one else was buying it.