In search of Rico Nasty

looking for this tshirt the man at the bar, he leans over. it is dark inside but not dark enough and so the long stretch of wrinkles scraped into this forehead by the uncaring tines of time, the way a glacier will gouge grooves in a stubborn unmovable stone, are as apparent as the hint of desperation visible behind his own barren eyes. he leans further in. I wait for it. lemme tell you something, he says, his lungs struggling to refill before he loses my polite but uncertain gaze. but instead of more words, he slides his right hand with something beneath it across the bar toward me. his hands are not fancy but are worn and thickened from some lifetime spent working doing what I do not know but imagine involved heaving heavy labor, the kind of work men do, with tools and effort, the kind of work that occurs in the background of everyone's lives, on the sides of highways where pavement thins and gives way to rubble and dust, or inside those last few factories with the worn brick outside and empty loading bays and cracked pavement like those dried up lakebeds somewhere outside of gabon. he leaves this outstretched hand in place a few seconds, hoping to build intrigue for what ever it covers, some thing he hopes I find valuable and engaging. I wait. --- she said I don't need confidence I have my body