“DON’T EVER let them put you on one of them enhalers. Ya know why?” he says.

“Inhaler?” (Just because I don’t know what else to say.)

“Yeah. You know what they do to ya?” He gives me a cockeyed look and slowly pats his index finger on his temple. It sounds like a rhetorical question, but he’s looking at me like I should guess. I got nothing. He nods, smirks and says: “Short term memory loss.”

“Wow.”

“It’s got so bad, it don’t take much to get me out of breath. Plus, I got to carry around this nitro with me.” He pulls an old, metal, 35mm film canister out of his shirt pocket. He shakes it at me. It rattles. “Total disability. They told me to come down here and they would fix it up that I wouldn’t have to pay taxes anymore. Because of the disability, see?”

I guess that’s one thing he can remember pretty good. I don’t say that out loud. I say: “OK. Like I told you,  the Tax Commission building is north about a half mile up this street on the right hand side.”

He takes a couple steps, stops and turns back like he forgot something. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the directions. It don’t take too much to get me out of breath anymore.” He rattles the film can again and walks off in the right direction.

I’m staying away from them enhalers!

.