He nervously twitches. His polebean shape emphasizes his skinny frame. His bowl style haircut is pure home grown. His smile a loose collection of slightly pointed teeth hidden by narrow lips. His skin lacks sufficent color. But he maintains a glowing smile.
It’s the new beginning. Willard turned of age at 21. His week very hectic. The adoptive home is longer a place for him. He left the dusty horsebarnfor the Casino worker life. No more shit boy jokes. The $50 a week pay is history. He has spread some wings. The roost that held him in has been opened. All those things to do when you’re free rush forth grabbing him by the ankle. The pulse of life beats strong. The pulse counted by machines that flash, chime, ding, create images of things unseen. There are no worlds he has witnessed. So this is everywhere.
His mind sees people as objects. Some recycled versions. Some characters of movies and shows. They are different from the black and white versions. But the faces seem so vaguely similar. It takes away the stigma home branded him with.