The 5'6 adult girl stepped awkwardly across the street like one leg was tied. A 6'2 wiry frame enveloped her shoulder like giant trenchcoat draped over a miniature coat rack. The whole time he was uttering and groaning indecipherably.

A man wearing a brimmed hat took a puff of his cigar as he watched them struggle across the street.  The groaning guy tried his hardest to keep his right elbow distanced away from her as not to get blood on her clothes. The man watching took another puff from his cigar and then walked over to where some of the blood had dripped. He whistled into the air, titled his hat down half an inch, then he bent down slow to get a better look.

There was now a decent sized crowd outside. There was nothing more to see now. But they were turning to each other to tell and learn what had happened. Or at least what they thought had happened.

That's how it was in a small town. Stories between people. When something like this happened on the main strip, everybody would become engrossed. They wouldn't talk about big issues around the country or world. They'd be talking about the weird bloody guy from the laundromat limping across the street with the gal for weeks.