The wind whipped across the
wide city street, carrying bits of dirty snow in its wake. In the early-morning
grey, the huddled forms of New Yorkers were already beginning to move – masked workers
on their way home from the night shift, parents and their kids venturing out
for one last bit of shopping, even a few remaining tourists taking it all in.
Red scarves blossomed on their necks, and in their hands, small plumes of steam
drifted upward from coffees and hot chocolates. All except one.
In a shadowed corner,
blessed by its builders with an awning that kept out both wind and snow, stood
a tattered, weary-looking man. His face, once clean-shaven, was now a thicket
of hair and beard, and though he kept himself scrupulously clean, his clothes
still bore the marks of homelessness. This was his corner, and so long as he
didn’t bother anyone, no one would bother him. He liked it that way.
As he stood, another, even
shabbier man approached, hands in the pockets of his old denim jacket. He
looked at the corner, then back at its inhabitant, wary.
“Mind if I stand here?” he
asked, pointing. “Cops moved me along, got to find a new place.”
The bearded man nodded.
“Be my guest,” he said.
“Cheers,” said the
newcomer. “Hughes,” he introduced himself, sticking out a hand. The other man
did not reach out to shake it, and he let it drop to his side. “Sorry. Old
habit.”
“Cole,” said the other.
“Or ‘hey, you,’ to our friends in blue,” he said, nodding up the street to a cop
on horseback.
“Got them here too, then,”
said Hughes.
“Not so bad. But keep your
head down, all the same.”
They fell into a shared
silence, eyes drifting along the crowd as it moved. Across the street, a Salvation
Army trumpeter played his slightly out-of-tune carols, launching into ‘Good
King Wenceslas’ for the third time as people dropped coins into the box behind him.
“Doesn’t that drive you nuts?”
asked Hughes, after an hour had passed. “Man can’t play to save his life.”
“Nah. I was a music
teacher, before all this. Heard worse.”
“Hm.” Hughes stood for a
while longer, shifting from foot to foot. “Folks don’t seem to mind – lot of
money in that box, by now.”
“Maybe.” Cole frowned.
“They’ll need it.”
“That’s for sure.” Another
pause. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“Sure. Shoot.”
“What would you do, if you
suddenly got hold of some money?”
Cole chuckled. “Get a
shave, for a start – can’t stand this thing,” he said, tugging at his beard.
“Then find a restaurant that’s still open, get a real lunch for once. Nothing
fancy.”
“Think it’ll happen?”
“Ha.” He gestured to the
street, and its rows of deserted shop fronts. “I know better.” He turned to Hughes,
squinting at him shrewdly. “And what about you?”
“Oh, same as you. Except
I’d get out of the city, maybe move back home to Virginia. Someplace it didn’t
hit so hard.”
“Hm.”
As they pondered, the
trumpeter set down his instrument, tucking it out of sight behind the donation
box. The music stand followed, and soon the man himself vanished into a nearby
shop.
“Nature calls,” said Cole
with a chuckle. “Wondered how long it would take him.”
“Yep,” said Hughes. “Say,
you want to make that wish list of yours come true?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s left the box
unlocked. We could grab it, be out of sight before anyone noticed.”
A pause. Cole shook his
head. “Nah. That’s too low, even for me.”
“Oh, come on. It’s for the
needy, isn’t it? Who fits that bill more than us?”
For a moment, Cole
pictured it. Him grabbing the box’s handle, straining to lift it up. Hughes
alongside, helping. The two of them, coattails flapping as they ducked into an
alley, out of sight.
“Not that needy,” he said
at last.
Hughes harrumphed. “Fine,
Mister Moral. Just stand lookout while I do it, then. Split it with you after,
fifty-fifty.”
Cole’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re awfully eager.”
“Well, aren’t you? C’mon,
it’s the best chance we’re gonna’ get!”
Without warning, Cole’s fist
shot out, catching Hughes square in the gut. There was an audible oomph as
the smaller man crumpled, clutching at his waist. From his coat, something clattered
to the sidewalk – a badge.
“Cop,” Cole hissed. “Knew
it.”
“Ugh… you can’t…” groaned
the other man, straining to catch his breath.
“What’s the matter, huh? Lockup
not full enough for you?” Furious, Cole puffed heavily from his nose, great clouds
of breath filling the air.
“Just… the way things go,”
Hughes managed to say.
“I bet.” People were turning
to look, but Cole was past caring. He lashed out with one booted foot, crashing
into the cop’s face. Hughes groaned, then spat, mingled blood and saliva falling
on the pavement.
“I dug through a dumpster
for breakfast today, you know that?” Cole said. “And my hands are still cleaner
than yours.”
“So what?” Hughes croaked.
“Still lost everything.”
Cole looked down at him,
then across the street. Near the shops, the trumpeter was retaking his post,
ready for another hour’s work.
“Not everything,” he said.
“Not yet.”
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Alex Skopic is a graduate student in English Literature from the Appalachian mountains of Pennsylvania. His writing has appeared in Rock and a Hard Place Magazine, Signal Horizon, and Vastarien, among other places. He hates and fears social media, so please don't look for him there.
Great story, Alex!
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