By J.K. Jones
Grumpy Pete looked up as he was walking home from the HandiMart. He gripped the 40 ounce beer bottle in the brown bag a little tighter as he noticed two hinky looking men strolling down the street toward him. His wrinkled, weathered face scrunched suspiciously as he squinted to see if he recognized the two who approached.
No such luck. “Old man…,” one said, nodding politely in greeting, and then the two were past him, ignoring his withering stare. Harrumphing, Grumpy Pete moved slowly across a cross street. His house on Laptide Drive was a five block stroll from HandiMart, where he liked to buy his cheap beer, smokes, Lotto tickets and occasionally a chili dog with onions. He was a spry old bugger, barely 71 years old, and liked to make that walk at least once a day. When he was feeling particularly thirsty for more beer, he made it more than once daily. Pete turned off the sidewalk and moved up his driveway, looking at his house and wondering how long it had been since he had painted it.