Jack and the Question

     Ever felt like you were beating your fists against heaven's walls? Thrashing at the pearly gates until your knuckles flowed freely? Welcome to the life of Jack. He really never meant to find himself in this position: no job, no friends, the decision of whether or not to leave his current girlfriend. All this came crashing down around him, too much to handle.

     A single waft of cigarette smoke found its way into our agonized protagonist's nose. "Crap, that stinks," he thought. He shifted his eyes to view the source of the smoke. It was that of an older gentleman, his three piece suit hugging his ample stomach. "Why doesn't he put that thing out?" questioned Jack. He stared at the man. The gentleman appeared to be absorbed in an issue of Time magazine, but he knew Jack was staring at him. A good five minutes passed while Jack examined the old man. A tattoo on the wrist of a small star, sad, drooping eyes, argyle socks, this man was an epitome of a mid-life crisis sufferer. He carried the scars of the tattoo for his wild fling as a teenager. He had learned his lesson. Settling down had been easy after all the narrow escapes he had wiggled out of. Jack continued to stare.

"Can I help you, son?" said the older man.

"Huh?!" said Jack, woken from his musings.

"I said, 'Can I help you," said the old man. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Oh no, I was just thinking."

"About what, son?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. Thanks, though." Jack felt somewhat of an irritation at the prying of the old man.

"Well, this is how I see it. You've got some problems. Wanna discuss them?"