Lucky Beer

I'm huddled up to my backpack, moreover; nap-sack, sitting in a cold off-green 3/4 occupied resturant booth. What I mean by 3/4 occupied, is that there is one or two people at each stall. When an elderly fellow of the street pushes along side the red naugahyde covered bench seat. He makes himself at home scooting toward me, pushing me into the corner. In his wrinkled hand he feebly holds a plate of mashed potatoes and cream corn, no meat, possibly he has previously eaten it. He's jabbering on about something of which I have a difficult time translating into fathomable thought. Stealth like, he reaches down near his feet to a partial bottle of Lucky beer and pours a meager amount into a frail plastic cup. He raises the cup to the table to set it directly in front of me. "Buy ya a beer?" I don't know if it was when he said buy or beer, but a couple of half chewed kernels of corn have been spit from his lips landing ever so graciously onto the rim of the plastic cup he has offered me. He holds on the precipice of his eyelid, one cold tear. I contemplate his position on the food chain and the possibilities of catching Hepatitis or something worse even and put back the beer in one go. He winks at me as the tear runs silently down his wrinkled cheek then raises an index finger to his lips ushering me not to say a word.