There’s a gangly man who looks to be in his mid-forties sitting on the short, wrought-iron bench across from the identical one I’m wasting my afternoon on. It’s midday Sunday, so the Amtrak station is busier than regular weekdays at this time. The weekend travelers are returning to their homes and their busy lifestyles here in Flint Michigan, no doubt. I’m not going to or coming from anywhere; I’m just here to people watch. I do this often when I need inspiration.
The man is tapping his long dress shoes nervously on the dirt-colored, industrial-grade carpet beneath our feet. He’s definitely guilty of something or another, that or else he’s in an anxious hurry. Either way, he clearly wants to flee the joint. He’s probably a stabber.
I picture his wiry fingers gripped so tightly around the
