My Cardboard Balcony

The Old Fisherman by Belinda Roddie The old fisherman's skin was baked and brown after so many years along the coast, casting his lines into the bay. And down the street, he could hear music from the most pompous of food establishments. He knew he'd hardly get a bite, given the storm that had plagued the city just only two days ago. Now the air was thick and warm, the humidity clinging to his hair, as he sat on the rocks with rod in hand, watching the water catching the sun's glare, smelling the salt and dirt and dampened sand, sensing no nibble on his lure. He thought, "I might as well stay here until I rot."

How long have you been working on the railroad? Has it really been all the live long day? Because last I checked, you were the heir to at least twenty million dollars as soon as your super wealthy father kicked the bucket. I guess you weren't exactly proving to him that you earned it. So, nothing like an afternoon's worth of labor and sweat, huh? Only I've been working here way longer than you could ever imagine. I'd say you ought to learn from me, but you don't seem to be the learning type.