The stain on the cement stared back at me. I wanted to go home and get a pail of hot water and wash it off. Several ants were grazing on it. I looked around. Everything was the same as it had been a few days earlier. The telephone booth. The newspaper boxes. The Six Points Plaza across the street. The plaza was empty. Business was bad. Several of the stores were abandoned. The stain was the only sign that something terrible had happened.
“You all right, mister?”
I turned around. A young boy looked up at me. He was about ten years old, with a lock of red hair falling over his eyes. He looked like Johnny at that age. The resemblance startled me. He was bundling newspapers into his carrier’s bag.
“You come to pick up your newspapers?”
He nodded.
“I used to have a paper route,” I said. “ The Telegram. Pink newspaper.
Ironic for a conservative newspaper.”
“What are you talking about, mister?” the kid asked.
“An old man died here yesterday.” I pointed to the stain on the sidewalk.
The boy looked down at the stain. “Is that all that’s left of him?”
“He made that stain when he died. His bowels emptied.”
“He shit his pants!” the boy gasped. “That’s gross! Was he shot?” I shook my head. The boy looked disappointed.
“Did you see him die?” the boy asked.
“I heard him die,” I responded. “My back was turned.” The boy thought about that for a moment.