OManjos Last Waltz Essay -- Creative Writing Narrative Essays

O gayjos Last waltz nearIt was another long week, and I was sounding forward to the usual pass rituals of mowing lawns and hammering a few nails into any place they seemed to fit. I ordinarily closed the auto parts store at 530 and stayed doing paperwork for another hour or so, exclusively not on Fridays. Fridays were the coating line of a usually marathon week of complaining customers and dissatisfied employees. At 531, the place would be empty, dark, and eager for an echo. The old military personnel knew this ritual, and when he came on Fridays, he usually blew in the door around 515. He had been coming in every week for closely a year. We didnt know Joes last name, we only knew him as Old Man Joe. We call him OMango, and he didnt seem to know the difference. His hearing was the least of his problems. He peppered his weekly visits all over different weekdays, but it was always Fridays that he waited until 515. He makes the usual remarks every time he sits his old, marshmal low behind see at the counter. Well, boy? Hed ask. What the hell are you looking at? Im looking at the ugliest, most disgusting, onriest son-of-a-bitch Ive ever seen Was my usual reply. Thats right, and dont forget it He would plunk for his dry, cracked hands in fists and shake them at me. Keep it up, boy, and Ill cut up your scrawny little but right here and now. At just about time in OMangos life, he was a prizefighter. His nose looked like it had taken more than its share of beatings, so I tended to believe the story. All the dress down was, of course, our way of greeting each other. If he did intend to come afterward me, Id most likely have him pushed out the door before he could get his oxygen tank over his shoulder. OManjo didnt really need ... ...opened. The neighbors didnt deficiency money for them they were just trying to sort things through, and knew Joe well enough to hypothesise at our credit arrangement. They said Joe died peacefully in his sleep, without pain . I wondered if he just laid in bed listening to that tape over and over like it was some kind of drug and he was a junky. This didnt seem wrong to me. At least Id know that he died happy. I imagined him waking up in heaven wearing his best trip the light fantastic toe shoes, and bouncing across the ballroom floor. There will always be another customer to fill Joes stool and fire remarks at us, but none will replace Joe. When I think about it, I kind of feel guilty that he paid me ten dollars a month to be his friend. It was not a difficult job, but was however human interaction that somehow becomes precious when its lost. I just ask OManjo got his moneys worth.