jeff

I ran a lot of errands today with Stef and Jason as Seamus hung out with the new nanny: picked out some new clothes for the coming work semester, ate a delicious (and outrageously priced) enchilada plate at Cherry Creek Grill, drank a black cherry soda on South Pearl, went grocery shopping, and sat in a broken car wash. One of the final stops was the liquor store to pick up a final six pack of Boulder Beer Porter for a craft beer tasting when I get back next week.

I actually saw Jeff outside Morgan Liquors on Evans and South Downing earlier in the day when we headed out for the morning from S&J's. He'd looked relaxed, calm, without a nervous urgency, even in the chill. He was in the sun, soaking it up into every crack on his face, rolling a Bugler cigarette, a cardboard sign resting at his feet (something to the ilk of "times are tough;" I'm not trying to be glib about his situation, I just honestly cannot remember the actual phrasing on his placard). We drove on, bought our clothes, ate our food. A few hours later, after I popped in for the porter, I peeked around the corner and saw that he was still there. I had five dollars left in my pocket: it was his.

He was born in Chicago, but traveled out here by way of Indiana. We talked about photography. We talked about how living with stress makes one feel alive, how it "keeps you on your toes," as he said. He talked just as I thought he would based on my earlier drive-by observation: collected and articulate. He seemed totally at peace with things, even if he might not have been. Yes, he seemed totally at peace. But are any of us?