“No, see, I’m really a cop. What I do.” Guy hooked his right thumb back at a black and white patrol car.
The look was more surfer style, the “Old Guys Rule,” kind of look. Flip-flops, not the expensive ones, the cheap ones, the real ones from a third world country.
“Last forever, these flip-flops do.”
Mind reading, so it would seem. Not really, but he had the look of a limber man, good six-foot-two, a small paunch around the middle as if the T-shirt was just half a size too small, or maybe, it was a long weekend with just tad too much beer. Doesn’t matter.
“No, man, I couldn’t,” he’s speaking into a phone. A fancy, smart handset. “I was up in Austin last weekend? Didn’t you hear?”
He chuckles. A heart beat later, “They were awesome, man.”
He glances around, a little conscious of where he is, his surfer attire, and how he is a cop. Some aspects in life can’t be changed. There’s a relaxed, almost casual sense about him, an air that it just doesn’t matter. Can’t get too worked up over anything, as he jokes on the phone, then laughs about the lyrics of some band. Rock and Roll will never die.
The surfer vibe isn’t entirely incongruous — the points for surfing aren’t too far away, and the big waves, hurricane season, when the Gulf of Mexico starts to get churned up, then it’s time to hit the beach. Not uncommon. Old guys really do rule, only, he’s younger than that. Face still smooth, no deep lines — certainly — to hear him talk, no worry lines. Genetics.
His father was a small town cop, and rather than settle in Northeast Texas, he drifted towards the beach. Junior College for Criminal Science, then the largest metropolitan location with the lowest chance of getting shot.
Important statistic, too. Sticks out. Almost a foot taller in most crowds, hence the easy-going attitude.
Just sitting in the coffee shop, one hand working that smart phone, lounged in the corporate furniture that’s designed to look funky and casual. He fits right in.