THE OLD MAN OF THE VILLAGE

by Steve Gwizdalski

Published in the Spring, 2004 issue of Spirits Magazine

When I pulled into the east parking lot I saw a bent-up and grizzled old man walking around, eyes on the ground. He’s wearing a scuffed and torn olive-green vinyl coat that must’ve looked like cheap leather when it was new - his dirty stocking cap had just enough thread to hold the holes together. No gloves, and shiny steel poking through the toe of his left boot. I got out of the car and shivered a little – the radio said it was sixteen and dropping. I knew that wherever this guy would be tonight, it wouldn’t be warm enough.

As I got closer to him he reached down to pick up a butt or a coin, grimaced some and I caught a glimpse of a gold front tooth. Least he has that, and as I walk by him he asks if I got a smoke. When I tell him no, he says “ Okay, amigo”. We kinda walk together towards the door. I get there first; hold it open for him, and then I’m in my favorite second-hand store, The Village. It’s mostly used clothes, books and some knick-knacks – nothing fancy. I need a couple of workshirts and a set of coveralls if I can find ‘em.

I don’t give the old man another thought until I’m standing in the checkout line, and see him across the way at the candy machine. Looks like he’s going through every one of his pockets to find change, and he’s not having any luck. He twists around and catches me watching him. “Shit” I mutter under my breath, busted watching this poor old guy searching for his last quarter. I’m not very big, and feeling a whole lot smaller about now – damn glad the lady in front of me has half a cartful of clothes to ring up. But even that doesn’t take long enough, and for once in my life I’m in a checkout line that goes too fast. I hand the cashier my two shirts, and she rings up a buck ninety-two. As I reach into my pocket, I steal a glance at the snack machine – good. The old man is gone. I can get away clean now. I had a feeling he was gonna hit me up for some money, but he must’ve left. I hand her a ten, and get my change. I turn to leave, and just about trip over the old man. He’s on all fours, I guess he spied a dime or something on the floor. He tries to get up a little too quick, but isn’t moving real well. He catches himself, clutching at his side, and I step in closer to grab his arm. He steadies himself, points to a chair by the window, and I start walking him over. I look behind to see if he left anything on the floor, then spot my cashier frowning and shaking her head. What’s her problem, I wonder. Poor guy can’t get out of her aisle fast enough? Bitch!

I get him to sit in the chair, and he rubs his eyes, and takes off his cap with his right hand – his left is still holding on to my sleeve. I ask him if he’s okay, and can barely hear him say, “Thirsty.” I look around for a water fountain, but only find a pop machine. He sees what I’m looking at nods his head and whispers ‘Coke’. Then the cashier pipes up and says something to him in Spanish, and he gives it right back to her – not whispering this time. I’m happy to see he’s got some spirit left in him, anyway. I open the Coke and hand it to him. Yeah, he’s thirsty all right, and probably hungry, too.

Well, of course he’s hungry, so I ask him if he’s had anything to eat. He slowly shakes his head no. ‘A little help here’ I think, but I don’t say it. I look around again, but nobody’s willing to read my mind – I guess everybody’s got their own problems. I look back down at the old man, and he’s just pitiful. He’s staring out the window when I say, “You need to eat some lunch, or something.”

“Mmmph” he grumbles, and glances up at me. He shrugs, matter-of-factly and shows me his two open palms. Then he goes back to looking out the window like this is just another day in his miserable little life. I look out the window too, and wonder just how in the hell did I end up here?

I peek back at the old man, then reach into my pocket and pull out the balled-up change from my shirt buy. I start to uncrumple the three ones, and he gives me this dejected, hangdog look that I take to mean three bucks is good, but… I glance back at the bills, then…ah, the hell with it. I give him all of it, my last eight bucks – you know, what was supposed to be my lunch money.

That’s okay, I think, I got cans of soup and stew at work, and besides, he looks genuinely grateful as he takes the money. He gets up, and sticks the money in his pocket – he seems more in control now. He meanders over to the side door, turns and gives me a little salute as he heads out.

I glance back at my cashier, and she’s shaking her head again. We make eye contact, and she smiles. I can see we both know that I did the right thing.

And it’s damn lucky I was watching him, I think, so full of myself I’m about to bust. Ain’t it good to help people once in a while! I got a big smile pasted on as I walk out the other way to my car - toss my new old shirts in the back before I catch the clock on the dash and figure I gotta get moving. And just as I turn the ignition key, out of the corner of my eye I see a clean, new, blue four-door Chevy shortbed pulling in to pick up two women. “Nice truck” I say, and as the women get in I spot the driver – and it’s mi amigo, the old man! Yeah, he’s got on that godforsaken jacket and holey cap, and he takes a puff of a little cigar as he says something to the women. They’re all smilin’ when he makes a quick turn onto 165th, squeals the tires just a bit and then they’re gone.

And here I sit…Yep... Here I sit in the old escort, with a bag of used shirts and no lunch money.

I shut off the heat, pull into traffic and turn down Kennedy. Squeal my tires too, but that’s because I gotta slow leak. And I’m thinkin’ it just ain’t my tires that need a little air.