Chippy is about sixty, an even milk chocolate tone, handsome in a leathery sort of way with shaven head and close-trimmed chin beard. Standing five feet eight inches and weighing in at 150, he is seasonably attired in a beige outdoors one piece with fur-lined hood and soft-brushed leather Longhorn boots.
Two young drug dealers—Ebony and Ivory by name—have gotten Chippy real drunk and he is trying to repay the favor buy buying their doughnuts and coffee—but Chippy has no cash and begins panhandling each and every one of us as the employees gathered up front on their break and customers line up with breakfast for their early morning shifts.
Chippy refers to every man as "Big Man" and every woman as "Baby."
He asks no "baby" for money, only inquiring of the "Big Men."
After being ignored or waved off by all of us, he places his hands in his pockets and delivers his sermon, the accumulated wisdom of a lifetime.
"I move up hea from Washington, D.C.—was a U.S. Marine, honor guard, white cap, white glove, pistol on my belt. We delivered the salute—ktush, ktush, ktush—fold the flag...Honor guard where I learn you big man or you no man. You stand or you ain't nothin'.
"The Man don' need no little man, He needs a Big Man.
"Am I right?
"Ya'll knows I'm right. Mark dose words..."
Chippy smiled at himself as his voice descended into gibberish and he seemed to shrink from the sound of his own words, searched his pockets for money and found none, shook his head in dismay and mumbled, "To work, make me some money...money man...Big Man or no man."
Stopping and taking note of the book in my hand, Chippy clicked his heels together and saluted, shuffling out into the night in drunken reminiscence of a proud day lost somewhere in the haze of a dim past.
