Loose change

Like the regularity of sunrise, he would always be present on the corner of 5th and Main.

His grungy beard made it impossible to accurately estimate his age. In the winter, he would layer up with many rags but the hollowness of his eye sockets indicated a thin structure within. His attire in the summer months would confirm this. The tallish frame was subdued by his leaning posture. The hands were wrinkled beyond repair and the nails were covered with a permanent layer of grime. Yet, his eyes remained lively. And it’s those eyes that I remember seeing each day.

Each day he would ask me for loose change. I would deny politely and walk on. I had been brought up by my parents to never reward beggars. I was told that it encourages them. And I believed that sincerely, thinking that my generous giving of a few quarters would suddenly convince the distraught beggar that his trade was profitable. Despite my constant refusals, he would continue asking with the same kindness and with the same eager light eyed eyes.

I wasn’t unsure if I should admire his persistence or pity his happenstance.

Through Michigan’s distinct four seasons, he would be the one constant in my routine. Whether I needed to get milk from the expensive grocery store around the corner or when I was coming back from a night on the town, our eyes would always meet. It was a very weird kind of regularity. Not comforting but also not alarming. In the frigid winter months, he would disappear in the evenings. I would imagine that he had found a shelter or a fate much worse. But he would keep appearing the day after, with his right arm out stretched.

As time passed, he became witness to the changes that were occurring in my life. Within the last three years, he must have seen me fluctuate through 15 pounds of weight. A quarter dozen heartbreaks followed by no more un-heartbreaks. 7 pair of shoes and several pair of warm jackets. I figured he would be always interested in these elements of apparel.

On the other hand, I did not see any difference in him. He still only wanted loose change.

One fine summer’s day I decided to change routine. I was moving. A new job beckoned me many thousand miles westward to a much smaller town. I was certain that I wouldn’t find any poor people in that suburbia and I wasn’t hoping to find one either. For the last few years I had been constantly collecting pennies and small change in a small plastic piggy bank. The container now was full to the brim and quite heavy. I estimated that its net worth would be easily enough for a steak dinner or for a bottle of cheap vodka, whichever would take his fancy.

I walked downstairs and out on to the corner. It was a gorgeous day. It just seemed that kind of day when routines were broken and loose change is given away. I scanned his corner but could not locate him. The piggy bank was now increasing in its weight in my hands as I stood still on the pavement. I was mildly disappointed as I made my way back into my apartment.

For the next two days, I continued looking for him. However, he was simply gone. Perhaps he found a better spot, perhaps he too moved or perhaps he had lived enough. Whatever the case be, he had stolen my thunder of a routine breaker. Or rather, he had broken routine earlier.

When I did leave that town, the pounds of pennies came with me. Perhaps, only as heavy as the memories that left I behind on 5th and Main.