An Old Timer

An old timer, through and through. His shirt was tucked in, with the fancy yokes and pearl buttons, and one front pocket tobacco-filled and bulging so that it would not snap shut. He was wearing faded old blue jeans, and a work-softened leather belt with a sterling buckle - a Zuni piece with coral, turquoise, and two bear claws. The hat was the first thing one might notice. It was well-worn wool, a wide-brimmed black novelty with a sterling band adorned by what he considered the finest turquoise in the county. He also had a Victorian turquoise tie-tack above the center segment of the hat band, something one might not notice, but probably the most important relic he wore.
We talked for a while, mostly because he was the rambling type and I felt I might gain a bit from something he might say. Told me about how his brother was arrested once not too long ago in Calistoga, and beaten to the threshold of death's door by three officers. Billy clubs flailing carelessly, hot from the friction, until the varnish had worn off of them and embedded in the man's clothes and flesh. He sued and won. Also about how when he was eight or nine he'd ride his bicycle from Calistoga to Saint Helena, steal oranges from the Catholic church and fill his spokes with them, riding back and eating the citrus all the way, a trail of peels behind him. Said it was a shame times had changed the way they had; that he'd rather live back the way he used to, even though it didn't make much sense anymore.