The Sponge

Jack had worked for Caltrans out in Shasta County for five years now. And never did he hate anyone so much as that bearded, homeless man who just walked past him on Highway 36.

Jack had to work all day in the summer sun, holding a sign that on one side read "Slow" in orange and black, and on the other side read, "Stop," in the ever infamous red. And here was the bearded, homeless man, walking on buy, nodding his hello, without a care in the world. He probably was sponging off of Jack's tax dollars in some way or fashion.

"The damn sponge," Jack said.

Jack reached down, and picked up a rock. It was a decent sized rock, sharp edged, about the size of half his palm. It had decent weight, too.

Jack cocked his arm back, looked at the sponge, and lobbed the rock. It flew straight, it flew right on target, but fell just short of the sponge. It bounded off the concrete road and bounced of the sponge's shoe.

The sponge turned around and looked, but kept walking backwards. He waved his hand in the air, up and down, then from left to right.

"What, does he think he's a sorcerer?" Jack said to himself.

Jack kept the sign in his left hand, and with his right flipped the sponge off with a middle finger.

The sponge kept walking, already facing forward, his green back pack contrasting the dry, yellow weeds on either side of the road.

"What a coward," Jack said.

Jack's boss came up a few minutes later, driving the big, green truck. The boss got out and asked for help unloading the water jug.

"Did you see that bearded, homeless guy?" the boss asked.

"Yea," Jack said, "I saw him."

"I gave him a ride up to the second sign back down the way. He was quite a nice guy."

Jack did not say anything.

"Anyway," the boss said, "We need that second cooler for the water."

"Want me to run home and get it?"

"Yeah, but be quick about it."

Jack jumped in the big truck, and sped away from the sponge. He wished he could have driven by him, maybe do a mercy killing by running him over. Maybe the sponge would be a good excuse not to pay taxes - Jack would bring it up to the IRS.

He pulled up into his driveway, just east of the little restaurant at the beginning of Highway 36. His dog was not barking.

He got out of the truck and walked up the paint peeled wooden steps to the front door. The door opened and there stood his dad.

Wham! A slap to the face.

"You dumb son-of-a-bitch. That damn dog of yours dug up ma's garden again."

"Sorry dad."

"The dog's been put down. Told you so many times to get that dog straight."

"Dad, that's my dog!"

Wham! A slap to the face.

"Then go get your own place where you can have your own goddamn dog."

Jack waited for his dad to walk away, after his dad stared him down in silence. Jack got the cooler, and got back into the truck.

He really wished the sponge would turn around and walk back. He'd teach that sponge a lesson he would never forget.