Chronicles of a Security Guard: Pookie

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    The night had been quiet, until it wasn’t.

   

    I was sitting in my patrol car when a sedan came tearing into the lot, headlights cutting through the dark like a blade. My hand instinctively went to the radio. This wasn’t the kind of speed you used when you were just coming home.

The car screeched to a stop. Doors flew open. A young couple or at least they used to be... spilled out, their argument already in full swing. Voices sharp. Accusations thrown like knives.

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    The man yanked open the back door, pulling out armfuls of belongings, tossing them onto the curb like he was trying to save them from drowning. The woman stood there for a moment, lips curled in disgust, then slid behind the wheel. She hit the gas so hard the tires squealed, leaving him in a cloud of exhaust and shame.

I’d seen his type before.

     

    Young. Pretty boy. Tattoos snaking up his arms and across his neck. Fresh fade. Clothes pressed so crisp they looked store-bought that morning. Sneakers, multiple pairs... still in boxes, all looking brand new. Designer shirts and jackets, a stack of jewelry worth thousands, and a seventy-inch TV that might’ve been the only thing in that household he actually owned.

Pookie.

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     A man-child in the flesh.

   The kind of guy who spends everything he hustles up on consumer goods with no thought for tomorrow. No savings. No retirement. Couldn’t care less about a credit score. Fresh $700 tattoo, but not $700 to keep from sleeping on the streets.

And the woman? She wasn’t innocent either. They encourage this arrested development—working overtime to fund vacations they can post on Instagram, coming home to past-due bills and maxed-out credit cards. They go half on a big down payment for a used-but-shiny BMW or Mercedes, something with status. Then one day, she realizes there’s no future in it, and Pookie is on the curb with nowhere to go.

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    Working at the bus station I’ve watched this story play out more times than I can count. He’ll crash on a friend’s couch for a while, maybe rent a room somewhere. But his real plan? Find another woman with money. One with a steady job and decent credit.

 

    Guys like him laugh at me, "the lame security guard." But I have health insurance. Ten thousand in savings. Seven years left on my mortgage. And a clean, purchased new F-150 not foreign, but stylish enough and it gets me where I need to go.

Pookie? He wakes up with one thought—light a Newport. Doesn’t realize the woman lying next to him is growing tired of him waking her up at 2 a.m., flipping on lights just so he can smoke in the kitchen. She’s got work in the morning, and he’s got… nothing.

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    The world is moving forward, changing fast. If he doesn’t adapt, he’s going to get left behind. I wanted to walk over, put a hand on his shoulder, and give him some advice. Tell him there’s another way to live.

 

But I stayed silent.

I wished him well.

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    I don’t have all the answers. My last relationship ended when I came home early from my second job and found my woman in bed with a Pookie.

 

Maybe I need some advice from him.