A light is on over the stove. Smeared grease. A cinnamon scented candle burns on the kitchen countertop. The dog sleeps under a metal table. He measures out coffee, one scoop at a time, adds water, and waits.

Out of the kitchen window, he sees the sun come up. It dances above the first frost. A squirrel scurries cross the backyard. Coffee is almost ready. The fat man puts sugar in a cup and adds creamer. He pours the dark liquid and stirs with an old spoon his mother gave him. She’s long since gone. Leaving behind the trailer, he lives in by himself. No wife, girlfriend, or children, just him alone doing what he does every morning. He blows out the candle.

Daylight is not kind to the lined face man from Fort Wayne. The shades are pulled down. He doesn’t want to see outside. And, he doesn’t want outside to see him. Cigarette burns on carpet. An ashtray over flowing. His hound kisses him and licks his ruddy face. Soon, it will be dark.

It is now night, and streetlights shine down on asphalt. Moms are yelling for their children to come home. Dinner time. The middle-aged man sits at the kitchen table eating a TV dinner consisting of fried chicken, corn, mashed potatoes, and an apple cobbler. An Old Style sweats in his hand.

He listens to the local college radio station. Jazz is played by kids who are learning about Coltrane, Miles Davis, Bill Evans, Cannonball, and Bird. His roly polly fingers tap to the beat of Ray Brown’s bass line, feeding his dog scraps of bread by his side. The fat man has always shared with his fellow man.

Music continues to play. Eddie Gomez is playing with Jack Dejohnette and Keith Jarrett. Jarrett whines over keys hit by his bony fingers on the song Autumn In New York. The fat man laughs and claps to Jarrett’s howling. A squeaky young voice comes on and says, it is 3:00 a.m. The fat man rests. He closes his eyes for a couple of hours and dreams.