OManjos Last Waltz Essay -- Creative Writing Narrative Essays

OManjos Last WaltzIt was another long week, and I was looking forward to the prevalent summer rituals of mowing lawns and hammering a few nails into any place they expected to fit. I usually closed the auto parts store at 530 and stayed doing paperwork for another hour or so, but not on Fridays. Fridays were the finish 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 man 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 about 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 over different weekdays, but it was always Fridays that he waited until 515. He makes the usual remarks every eon he sits his old, marshmallow behind down at the counter. Well, b oy? 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 deflect it He would hold his dry, cracked hands in fists and shake them at me. Keep it up, boy, and Ill whoop your scrawny little but right here and now. At somewhat time in OMangos life, he was a prizefighter. His nose looked like it had taken more than its share of beatings, so I ten-spotded to believe the story. All the colloquy was, of course, our way of greeting each other. If he did intend to come after me, Id most likely have him pushed out the door before he could collar his oxygen tank over his shoulder. OManjo didnt really need ... ...opened. The neighbors didnt want money for them they were just trying to sort things through, and knew Joe well enough to guess at our trust 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 promised land wearing his best dance shoes, and bouncing across the ballroom floor. There will always be another customer to fill Joes stool and release 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 merely human interaction that somehow becomes precious when its lost. I just solicit OManjo got his moneys worth.