CIGARS, HOT COFFEE, AND IDIOT SAVANTS

I was looking forward to the truck-load sale held at Prater's antique store. I'd missed the last three. My back was aligned like an contortionist's colon, but I managed to crawl out of bed and pulled into the parking lot as the first box of goodies was unloaded. Two regulars; a sawed-off, cigar chomping ex-marine with a crew cut, and a steely-eyed, tall drink of water with a bouffant hairdo, charged the box. They collided in a cloud of java spray and swirled smoke.
"Bitch!" The battle cry took wing above the heads of thirty early morning pickers. Some stopped to stare at the blistered arm aiming the cigar. Others continued to claw through the treasure laden box.
"Bastard!" The lady with the do fanned smoke from her face.
"You spilled coffee on me on purpose."
"I hope you get lung cancer!"
More boxes were unloaded. Folks scrambled for position. A teeny-bopper in a halter top pulled a sixties peasant dress from a banana box. Her squeals were drowned out by the Drill Instructor.
"Drop and give me fifty!"
"Fifty?"
The marine fought his way out of the flashback. He was alone.
I left him there, in a sea of civilians, armed with a single red-tipped cigarillo.