by John White

Created on: June 29, 2009

THE WRITER

Normally I'd sit on the cushioned stool behind the counter and hide my textbooks out of the view of customers. The outside of the counter was covered with large mirrors that let customers admire the shoes they were trying to decide whether or not to buy. The mirrored counters were standard dcor for the shoe stores located inside shopping malls. The men's shoe store, where I worked, was considered upscale even for a mall. We sold mostly Florsheim and Bally shoes. The after school job helped pay for my college expenses. I worked the hours of four to nine and most of that time I spent studying. Usually there were few customers in our part of the mall during the evening hours.

I first noticed the "Writer" on one of those quiet nights in the mall. I had yet to wait on my first customer, and it was my second day on the job. My school textbooks were spread out on the big desk. Fred, my co-worker, watched the floor so I could concentrate on my engineering problems.

About 4:30, the "Writer" walked in the entrance near the J. C. Penney's and sat down on the wooden bench in front of our store.

I guessed his age to be early fifties. He was dressed in a rustic, multicolored, cotton, long- sleeve shirt and light brown khaki pants with large pockets everywhere. There were zipper pockets and button pockets on both sides of his pants. He untucked his shirt to hide the forty or fifty extra pounds he was carrying. His full head of dirty brown hair, small beard and mustache gave him the look that was popular with college professors back in the seventies.

He unzipped one pocket on the left side of his pants and brought out some reading glasses, which made him look ten years older. He unzipped a right hand pocket and retrieved a pack of unfiltered Camels, a lighter, and an ashtray. He placed the ashtray, cigarettes, and lighter carefully on the bench. Then he took a notebook from under his arm and placed it on his lap, opened it to the first page and pulled several pencils out of the many-pocketed pants. He lit a Camel, smoked for about a minute, and then put the cigarette on the ashtray.

Then he started writing. And writing. And writing. He continued writing until 8:45. At exactly 8:45 he got up, emptied his ashtray in the trashcan, put the ashtray, pencils, glasses, lighter, and cigarettes in his pockets, tucked the now full notebook under his arm and walked out the Penney's entrance. Although I thought this seemed a little unusual, I didn't

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