Blind Man of the Waterfall

It was a beautiful day. The wind rustled the leaves of the dense tropic palms. An old man sat back in his old wooden chair. He sat and listened to the sound of a gurgling river flowing down through the boulders behind his humble dwelling. A dwelling that can only be referred to as, in its most optimistic description, an upscale shack. His chair sat on a front deck of sorts, a simple slab of cement, well made and level, and without noticeable flaws, but a slab nonetheless. Around him were a couple of weather beaten tables covered with plastic cloth sheets in unobtrusive patterns of blue, red, and green. The colors were clean and had the hint of brightness, but age and use had faded them to pastel. The tables were stocked with the basic necessities for wandering travelers; in orderly rows; the most common carbonated sugar waters, flavored salt waters, and caffeinated energy drinks, and next to those, also in an orderly row, a few flavors of fried potato snacks sitting in their respective over-puffed bags.