‘Good luck to you, you old bastard,’ I said.
I spent the rest of the day going through my files for the District Two event. There was one photo I particularly liked. Pop had just been doused with stale beer and was about to climb into the truck. He stopped, looked back and raised a thumb to someone at the nearest table. All the other drinkers there sneered at him and made gestures that left no doubt as to their feelings. Their faces were masks of vitriolic larva. But one character was smiling. He raised his thumb to Pop in a brief and rare moment of camaraderie. I enlarged that partygoer as far as focus would allow. I cleaned up the picture. And as I looked at the finished item I had no doubt as to what I was seeing on my screen. The only man at the funeral to share and appreciate old Pop’s secret was the spirit of Uncle Beung.
THE END
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