The traffic reminded me of a swarm of laboring bees. A red-faced, heavyset man stood at his cart beneath a bright yellow umbrella; he sold wieners, corn dogs, and onion rings.  The food oozed steam and a coffeepot belched curly puffs of white into the cruel spring air.  Realizing business wasn’t going well, the fellow packed up and moved on.

Sighing heavily, I stuffed my cold, stiff hands into my coat pockets.  A few feet away, I noticed an elderly man resting on a peeling park bench like the one I occupied.

            Curiosity assailed me.  The old man sat hunched forward with one gnarled hand lying limply atop a weathered cane. He absently flipped a coin in the air with his other hand.  His gaze never darted to the action so sure was he with the practiced maneuver.  With his whiskered chin perched upon the arthritic digits, the knuckles forced the side of his mouth up in a sort of weary smirk as if the flipping coin were bringing him dreams of gaming tables.  Upon his snowy head, a black gentleman’s hat was shoved precariously forward on his brow, hiding his eyes.  The patriarch’s coat was so large on him that at first glance one might mistake him for a discarded heap of brown woolly blankets.  It hung to his knees concealing the rest of his apparel save for the bottom of his trousers.  I expected him to possess a pair of those black shiny shoes I’ve often seen elderly men wear, but found instead that a pair of scuffed Keds shod his feet.

            Mildly surprised, I tried to get a good look at his face.  He had a large, wrinkled nose, and beneath it drooped a cottony, unkempt mustache.  I could barely see his eyes, but was able to glimpse just enough of them to realize he wasn’t watching the pigeons that scratched and paced the sidewalk.  Instead, he stared sadly into space.

            From what I observed of the old man, I assumed he was another victim of a meager fixed income.  He’d obviously seen better days.  Oddly enough, I pictured him as a gallant gentleman with elegant ladies on his arm strolling through the park.  I felt melancholy, the feeling bubbling from the knowledge that the wonderful and exciting era of fancy frilly clothes, gem-laden jewelry, and men and women with devout morals and honorable lifestyles, had vanished.  The elderly gent belonged there, not in this world of pollution, punks, and a society infested with crime and laced with habit-forming dreams.  He was out of place, drifting along in the wrong world.

            Looking down the opposite end of the street, I spied a small woman selling flowers.  Smiling, I walked down to her cart studying the variety of flora that she offered.  I glanced back; the venerable fellow remained on his frozen seat.  I stared down at the kaleidoscope of blooms.

            My parents raised me in a thirty-room bed and breakfast inn complete with a well-paid staff of eighteen.  They sent me to college and I graduated to practice law in two states.  So, I believe when my time is up I will have left a small mark on this tired world.  Would the old man sitting behind me leave an impression when he was gone?  Would there be someone to grieve for him, to remember him and pass on his wisdom?  Children perhaps?  Nieces and Nephews?  A godchild?  Did anyone care?

Moments later, I stood in front of the fellow with a crimson carnation in my fingers.  He looked up at me and blinked curiously, the coin, a blackened, age-worn quarter landed softly in the palm of his lined hand.  At that moment, I stared into his eyes.  They were as blue as the ocean and full of vigor.  I saw the elegant ladies in their velvet dresses; I glimpsed the old gent in his black tailored suit and top hat attending well-cultured parties.  All of it was harbored in his eyes.

The emotion I felt stunned me.  My hand trembled ever so slightly as I offered the carnation.  Puzzled, he took it, then as an afterthought, the gentleman glanced at the quarter in his hand.  Both of us noticed it was heads up.  His eyes darted to mine, a brilliance shining in them, and he favored me with a broad, half-toothless grin.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

He placed the carnation in his buttonhole, the long stem hanging down his lapel, and rose to his feet.  He shoved the quarter deep into his pocket, and with dignity, strolled away slowly, his cane tapping a crisp melody.