Beggars aren't choosers

A short story recommended by a friend, inspired by the streets I grew up in. Every second corner had a beggar, probably still has, but I'm not there to see it anymore. This one particular person, wasn't a beggar and I don't believe there is a term for what he is. I won't spoil too much, read the story and let me know what you think in the comments below (if you have trouble commenting, take a look at my announcement post). Once again this is based on true events, but colored with imagination. I've found that the most glorious writing emerges when I allow real life experiences to inspire my creative mind. I hope that this reminds us that even if we are going through terrible times, it could be going worse.

Time to stop

Photo by John Moeses Bauan on Unsplash

PLEASE COME

He stood on the side of the road with wildly determined eyes. The light was red for barely another second and muscle memory took over accelerating the car, but my eyes were glued to him until he disappeared from my peripheral vision. 

He had been on that corner since the first morning I started at the new firm. Being a lawyer may not be the most creative job but it had its flare at times. I was still an intern at the time and efficiency had been one of my top qualities. It took me three weeks to notice him. Always standing. Hands at his sides. Staring reverently into space. Looking intently, at nothing at all. He didn't even beg like most in these parts of the city. 

After a few more weeks and the loneliness of the car setting in I decided to entertain myself. After all, the artist inside wasn't getting any exposure in the office and she had been begging for air. 

I pictured him to be standing in a strapping uniform complete with applets, purple heart and golden medal. Saluting the sergeant. He had received the purple heart and paid the price of sanity in return. The events had ripped him to shreds and spit him out leaving only the small pin on his chest and the honor he had served with. But before I could insert the details of his deterioration the light flicked me back to reality. I was moving again. 

The next morning there was no red light and no cars to allow any insight. I simply saw him in a tailored suit staring at a schedule in anticipation of the bus arriving. In a blur he as gone. I had gone by too fast for anything more. 

On a particularly rainy day cars were flooding in from every direction and still he stood firm and without protection. Staring flatly into the distance. Waiting. My mind was racing with scenarios that stretched from a terrible breakup to, a movie scene in which he played the main actor. I dismissed them one after another digging deep into my mind and coming up blank. What was he waiting for? Would it ever arrive? How deep did his determination go? My heart had felt something deeper than pity, it ached of envy. His loyalty was incomprehensible. It had driven him to the point of delusion. The world passed him by and yet he didn't seem to notice. All he knew and stood ready for was an arrival. An arrival of a daughter perhaps? A wife? Forgiveness? Hope? 

The honking grew louder. I pushed him from my gaze and proceeded to the route. Moving past him.

For the first time, my mind keeps running over all our encounters. Even though we had never actually met. The rain is still pouring outside and with each flash of lightning another image of him is burned eternally into my memory. I want to know why. I want to know how. Today I will ask him. The clock strikes for lunch. I am out of the office and in my car before I even decide what to say to him when I reach the corner. I'm too deep in thought to immediately notice the ambulance with screaming sirens that I should be getting out of the way for. My chest pinches tightly when I see it turn the corner I am heading towards. My fingers go numb as I see a uniform hunched over a body; moving rhythmically. My ears ring as the head paramedic shakes his head peeking down at his watch. The tears collect in my eyes for a moment but dry up as I see the single broken light on the bus. Minimum damage. 

For the first time. People have stopped moving and started paying attention. But its too late. 

I still drive the same daily route. Stop once a week to replace the flowers and make sure the cross is still intact. Its always there. Waiting.  Even after death. To be claimed by an arrival; a daughter, a wife perhaps Forgiveness would still come.

But Hope, is lost.