Waiting for Fogot

Sunday morning. Thick fog. Time as taffy like a friend wrote me.

I walked a rural road. I saw an old man off the shoulder in a parking lot of an abandoned building. He was clutching a Bible in his right hand and holding it against his chest. Apparently he was waiting for something.

The man was familiar to me. A year ago or so, he got catfished by the Ukrainians and lost his house, savings and sanity. He was now homeless and living in the trees somewhere near me.

I approached him. His face was utterly vacant. I asked him if was okay. He said yes. I asked if he was waiting for a ride to church. He said no, then yes, then that he didn’t know if his ride would brave the fog. I asked what denomination of his church. He didn’t respond. Did he even know?

I told him to have a great day and walked away to the beach.

A few yards down the road, I turned and saw the man reading the Bible in the fog, waiting.