The Powerful Man

was useless.

He just stood there, looking impressive.

He could talk, give advice, and do what he wanted

but to others, he was useless.

“He doesn’t seem that powerful to me,” said a snot-nosed woman getting out of her Corvette.

“That’s because you don’t have what he has,” her sniveling husband said. He had a beard and a sweater that buttoned in the front.

The Powerful Man

walked to the window

and placed his bet. He made his living by taking risks

by knowing what other people would do

before they did it

by being a prognosticator

Yes, he was a student of the species

a scientist, who never wrote anything down—a practical philosopher.

The woman wearing a cocktail dress with a slit that went all the way

walked to her seat

with her husband.

It was like he was being led by an invisible nose-ring.

They sat down

and watched the powerful man through their binoculars.

“He’s smoking a cigarette in the non-smoking section now,” she said. “He just pinched a young girl’s ass. Damn, I wish I had video. Then, I could fry him for sure.”

“Honey, you need to stop thinking like a lawyer. There are other things in life, you know.”

“Like what?” She said through tight lips.

“Horses—and that man over there, betting on them. How does it make you feel that he makes twice as much money as you by not having a profession, and your whole identity and existence, is wrapped up in your job, like a bad gift, you keep giving to yourself because nobody else wants it?”

“Seriously Alfred, you need to stop being an English teacher when we go to the track. It’s boring. You’re boring. Your people-watching skills were interesting on our first date, but then they got old.

“Look—it looks like he has a backpack that’s blinking,” Alfred said. “He left it next to the propane tank.”

“Let me see!”

“Cynthia, my people-watching skills bore you, remember?”

She reached into the slit of her dress for her vibrating cell-phone.

“Where did you pull that thing from,” Alfred asked.

“I keep it Velcroed to my ass.”

“Okay.”

“Track security, there might be a bomb next to the propane tank on level 2. Would you check it out?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m a lawyer, and I’m recording this call. What’s your name?”

“George.”

“Well George, if you want to be responsible for the death of 100 people, don’t do anything.”

Cynthia hung-up, like she just detonated a bomb. “These security types are so predictable,” she said. “What’s he doing now?”

“He’s looking at us through binoculars. He’s coming over here.”

“Honey, defend me.”

“Against that man? He’s a monster.”

“What good are you then?”

“I can stimulate you, with my stories. You like that. That’s why you carry your cell-phone Velcroed to your ass.”

“You mean to say, he’s not coming over here?”

“He went for a cheese dog and a beer. It looks like he met a girl in a mini-dress and they’re walking back to the parking lot.”

“Horse racing is a haven for prostitution,” Cynthia said. “They bill by the hour.”

“So do you.”

“Is there a bomb?” Cynthia asked.

“I just made that up. Maybe, you’ll get disbarred.”

“You would like that, wouldn’t you. I could be your stay-at-home sex slave.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Alfred said.

“If you say so.”

He led her back to the parking lot, as if, by an invisible nose-ring. She handed him her car keys, as the horses ran down the final stretch.

“It’s white lightning… white lightning, ladies and gentlemen!”

“I just won 100 bucks,” Alfred said.

“The first hour is free.”

“What’s your going rate?”

“We’ll talk about that, after—you powerful man.

The End