Numbers.

Life for Johnny was extremely mechanical and numbered. Everything had a number, and a place, and a time. His mornings began with his medicine, 2 pills for pain, 3 for the kidneys, 5 for a random assortment of other things. Afterwards he would have 2 eggs, and over the course of the morning would have 3 glasses of water. Depending on the day, the weather, the general feel of the air, he could have anywhere between zero customers and 41 on a Monday. On Saturdays where the people of the area tried desperately to leave for some better area with hygienic bathrooms and clean streets, they came to him. He could have over 101 customers some days. Then as the afternoon rolled around he ate and drank various things, rarely healthy for him. It was a point of pride, somewhere deep in that puttering heart, that he could down 5 whole bottles of whiskey in 3 minutes if he wanted too. He didn’t, but he could. Then again, he could have taken the suitcase and left to see the world one last time before he finally stopped creaking around, but hadn't. By the time the evening rolled around, which for Johnny was about 5, he closed up shop. He set his own hours, and the government hadn't decided he had to go away just yet. He could sleep for 11 hours straight, and often did. The suitcase had been sitting for over 997 days, more than 10 sets of 997 days in fact. So would he. Mechanical, but with a heart inside indeed, because as no one else knew. There was a worn and weathered picture of an enormous greyhound being held by an equally as enormous man. There, in faded marker at the bottom, were the words, John and Chuck. This photo of course was back in Johnny's room, where no one had ever seen it, but it was there, and it warmed his heart every time he saw it.