Dimes and nickels

He scurried across the parking lot and around the building; right after the woman on the previous shift bolted for home and left me to stand watch over the gadgets and geegaws that make radio magic.

He had a half-empty cigarette pack in his hand and I thought, "This is it." I grabbed a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and went out after him.

He looked up from the ash container as I came around the corner, smiled harmlessly as I lit a cigarette and tried not to inhale.

"Just getting the spares," he mumbled then pushed two half-smoked butts into his flimsy, little paper box.

I nodded. I wasn't stopping him.

Up close, he seemed taller and poorly fed --a scarecrow stretched too far on too little straw.

"Hey," I said, as he walked away. "I'm not hassling you, but I see you over across the street most nights when I leave. I guess that makes us neighbors here. My name is Bill. What's your name?"

He smiled an ancient and ruined smile with teeth like collapsed pillars then said, "Elsa."

"Eldon?" I asked.

"Elsa," he repeated then slunk away, across the street and under the poor shelter he'd chosen.

I watched him go then went to the urn and dropped two cigarettes, unburned into the can --for later --a kind of neighborly gesture maybe.

Inside, I looked up the name Elsa. It's a girl's name, a derivation of Elizabeth.