James:

James, black wash denim. Carries on down the street his crate of tools. One hammer, one saw, a crowbar and nails. He scuffs his shoes, he doesn't walk right, he continues on down the street. Taking his cargo on the left side of the road, James and his conscience think together. He can only be good or bad.

Maybe James can be a little of both.

People pass him, they stare. Sometimes they throw things. Sometimes they are insults, one time it was a can. He took it to the metal works and got 10 cents for it. James throws insults at himself too. Those, like the can are recycled. The same inadequacies fit each time.

Lack of smarts, James thinks. He thinks he lacks in a lot of areas. He thinks not like normal people do. Texture has a lot to do with it. Each situation is related to him by texture. If it is wrong, it rubs him the wrong way.

Nothing can prevent James from feeling what he feels, and he likes this most of the time. And he likes his hammer, his saw and the crowbar and nails.

The door swings wide.

He stops it with his right foot, which has an untied loosely hanging patent leather shoe on it. "Morning.", he greets. He remembers: Beth, John, Steve, Tom, Joyce, Al...Blond hair? He does not remember this one. Seemingly, with burning-iron red glowing eyes of imminent doom she turns to him.

Swing do his arms, he drops the crate of tools.

He takes care of his hands, and his feet. James' father, Job (Joe-b) told him to remember to do this. He can kinda remember a lot of what his dad did or said:

"Take care of your hands, so they can mend. Your feet, keep them dry. Keep clean socks beside the radiator during the winter, James."

James also remembers other things. Some of them are: Job's fondness for gumball machine gum, fishing caps, and pin ups. Those ladies now are 80. James' memories of his father are pinned up in his memory, but are now fading like the beautiful buxom ladies which then hung against the wall of the garage.

The tool box is empty. The tools are stocked on the hardware store's wall. They are the same tools, in a new environment. Usually they fly off the shelf. Now, however, they remain hung and left to shine. Maybe to display there value and their luster. Or maybe to hang.

James leaves the store, but first ties his shoe. He takes his crummy old crate and heads back up the road from where he came. He admits he would do it as many times as it takes.