#72

Every day, there he is. Surrounded by steam and the smell of piss. Guarding a door that needs no guarding. His eyes droop. His shoulders hang. He sees you coming and his keys appear with a high chiming jangle, swooped from a pocket with practiced hand. Inserting key into lock and holding the door open for you to enter. Thank you, good morning as he nods at the wall across the alley. As you come and go throughout the day, sometimes he is at the bottom of the stairs sitting in a plastic chair. Sometimes he is not. Sometimes he is standing, chatting with a woman guarding a bank, sometimes he is conversating with the boys running the hot dog stand. In these moments he stands a little taller. Every day it is the same until one day it is not and in his stead there stands a jovial man with white hair. Smiling. Garrulous. It is months and months later and you are walking home with a paper bag of produce and there he is, walking toward you, hand in hand with a woman with a swollen belly. He does not notice you. He looks nothing like the man you remember. He walks with purpose. His face is relaxed. He looks happy.