One of these days I should strike up a conversation with Rockabilly Boy. I see him often standing in doorways of the tougher bars east of here. No, he doesn't stand, he leans against a redbrick wall, smoking. He's got the look: hair brushed back, black leather jacket, pegleg pants, and the chip on his shoulder is a glorious thing to behold. He could be Gene Vincent or skinny Elvis or any of those guys who knew how to sneer. I'm just guessing but I'd say Rockabilly Boy is in his late sixties or early seventies. I'll bet he has stories to tell and I wouldn't mind hearing a few. After all, time doesn't always fly. No, sometimes it struts.