How to be Cruel

Nick, not that anyone's asked. Eighteen years.

People spit on him. Kick him. Tell him to get a goddamn job. Hold their breath as they pass.

Occasionally a kid'll toss a quarter his way, his parents wearing torn expressions: pride colored with embarrassment that their child saw what they did not; anger that their son has given away his bubblegum money, their money, money they actually worked for.

Or those those holier-than-thou bits, white turtlenecks neat beneath Christmas sweaters dancing with reindeer and jolly elves, even the big guy himself.

Not God, of course. Nobody wears a sweater knitted with a picture of God.

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