I presume the calligraphed words running down his well-hewn triceps said UNTOUCHABLE and UNSTOPPABLE.
He was in the McDonald’s where Western meets Milwaukee, a spot at the exact confluence of urban poverty and rich kids playing poor through their 20s. He was clearly amid the latter, but not above a quick burger no one has ever referred to as “artisanal,” “gourmet,” or “gastro-”
Despite his choice of meatstuff, he was a perfect physical specimen. Glamor muscles toned, tanned and tatted, he wore a tight black T-shirt to show off the same.
He looked the perfect median between salon and saloon, like he could either be heading to a stylist or a bar brawl. Fashionable yet tough. Coiffed yet ready to throw down.
Untouchable. Unstoppable. Like I assume his arm tattoos bragged.
Or, since he was wearing a T-shirt with sleeves just long enough to take three letters off, OUCHABLE and TOPPABLE.
That’s a funny thing I saw.
There’s always some humor in walking the streets. A muscleman bragging by error that he could be topped and would say “ouch.” Some sharp graffiti. A downtown store advertising that Vladimir Putin hacked their system to give out incredible savings.
A friend framed a photo she took of a chicken darting across a road in Pilsen. “Why?” she asked. “Why?”
It’s nice that life doles out the silly alongside the grim. It’s always pleasant when something takes your mind for the moment off tasks and trends and the news outside.
Even if it’s just to laugh at a muscleman.