Stan surveyed the progress from the outside, staring up at the overhanging arches. No doubt, it would be on the news soon that the contractors had fallen through again, and another $4 million would be needed to lure new ones in. The public wouldn't hear of the state of disrepair the original ceiling was in, not for another year or something. He wondered what the point was, seeing as the rink would only be used for twice-a-decade tournaments after the Games. It would cost billions every year to repair and keep the building from becoming condemned; sort of silly for something that would be used so little.
He stepped out of the car, holding one arm out to keep the door from swinging at him. Leaning back a little, he popped his back. Stan yawned. He turned back to the car, slamming the driver door, and moving on to the back. His key sank home, and the trunk creaked open. He started picking out fliers. He couldn't decide on what to push here. Seeing as most of the people around this street were bums, he didn't think he'd get much from the Seeking God? Start Here! ones. Maybe Free Coffee; Free Redemption and a Doughnut would tempt this contemptible crowd. The Mission was a few blocks over. It made him wonder if anyone around here would give up their panhandling corners long enough to pass by that way. Time to find out. He pulled out a few of each of the fliers.
He reefed the lid down, fingers loosely filing fliers. There was no click, so he had to lift it and try again. It worked this time.
With purpose in his stride, he glided to the sidewalk. His loose suit flapped, but it seemed like the folds exuded the confidence he felt in his questionable soul. He tried to place a calming, knowing smile on his lined face. He didn't have a mirror handy, so he couldn't check how sincere he looked. Hopefully, he thought, he looked convincing. He glanced down at his watch without registering the time; it was a nervous habit of his.
He approached a few of the lesser-stoned individuals along the stretch. Most laughed him aside, hands pushing away his messages of hope. A government lackey scootched in to his territory. This one looked like an office temp. Likewise, her brightly-colored propaganda was being rejected by the unwashed masses. He surreptitiously checked out her ass while she busied herself with stopping and greeting the ignorant passerby crowd. Not bad. Round, but not so round that he'd want to see her bounce off it on a trampoline. Her heels made little clip-click sounds as they slipped on small ice patches. His smile gained an edge of humour that it had lacked earlier.
He waited for her to fall down and muss that pastel jacket. He leaned in, handing a flier to a half-sleeping bum, his head twisted at the side to focus on the girl. He didn't see if the tramp took it or not; he shot bolt upright as the girl's feet whipped out from under her, her long auburn hair lashing upwards in a thready arch. The smile lifted on one side, giving him a sideways grin. She hit the ground with a throaty gasp. Trotting over, he lifted the girl from behind, thrusting his hands deep in to her armpits. Thankfully, they were still dry. She must have just started for the day, or something. Either that, or she had a wicked antiperspirant on. He'd sniff his hands later to check. He noted that the jacket didn't even pick up a whiff of snow. He slapped the back of her neck, pretending to clean her off.
She turned to face him, shaken. Her cheeks were rosy, probably from embarrassment. Her face was heart-shaped, framed by carefully tweezed eyebrows and bangs that had an exact line, regardless of the tumble. If it weren't for her oversized nostrils, she'd probably have a good face. No wonder they had her handing out BC Is Strong fliers; they were scattered all over the ground, growing moister by the second.
"Well, uh.. thanks," she said, stooping down to scoop up loose papers amidst the careless footfalls of shoppers. He dipped to his knees, ignoring the cool sensation. His hands shifted his fliers to his jacket pocket before pecking around for the girl's dampening bullshit. When he'd gotten more than she had, he thrust them in to her pile. He got up, resisting an urge to ball his fists at his hips.
Walking off, he imagined her staring after him. His glee was unmeasurable.
Turning the corner, he met with a dead end. Five junkies huddled under the door frame, their blankets wrapping their poorly-clothed forms. Beside the door, they were illuminated in the shadows by a neon Olympic insignia.
"Ha," he breathed, still a good distance away. "I guess this is what it means to live Olympic on the coke side of life."
