Leaving the neighborhood diner, I heard someone call my name from one of the tables outside. I turned around, expecting to see a friend. But while I’d seen the man who was sitting there plenty of times, we’d never formally met. He was a familiar figure around town, a bit of a character, with hair the color of driftwood flying out from beneath his cap, a half-smoked cigarette parked behind his ear, a smile as friendly as could be.
“I’m Jimbob,” he
