They sat on the curb, eating falafel, smoking Russian cigarettes they had bummed off some Russian. The sauce was dripping, they licked it off. Strange tobacco, strange spices.
A man—a bum, if you will—limped up to them, crossing the street. They saw him coming, limping. They couldn't get up and walk away, they couldn't ignore him, pretend they were doing anything other than people-watching.
He asked them for a smoke. They told him the truth, that they didn't have any more, they spoke of the Russian. It seemed he understood, that there was just enough detail to make it the truth.
And then he asked them for food. They were almost done, the falafel was gone, what was left was mostly cucumber. And with this they didn't know what to do. Did offering the cucumber and pita, did that insult the man? Did saying no insult him more? How should they handle these last few bites? They had never given such thought to such scraps.
But they offered them to him. It wasn't much, they knew, they said, but they offered them up nonetheless. And the bum, the man, he stood there, looking at them. Was he wondering what to do? Was he moved beyond words or actions? Was he even here at all?
He took the food and sat beside them. He ate, and smiled, and you would never know he had a limp. And the man next to him, when he saw the Russian pop out of the bar, he called him over and asked for more cigarettes. No, thank you, the bum told them, I don't really smoke.
A man—a bum, if you will—limped up to them, crossing the street. They saw him coming, limping. They couldn't get up and walk away, they couldn't ignore him, pretend they were doing anything other than people-watching.
He asked them for a smoke. They told him the truth, that they didn't have any more, they spoke of the Russian. It seemed he understood, that there was just enough detail to make it the truth.
And then he asked them for food. They were almost done, the falafel was gone, what was left was mostly cucumber. And with this they didn't know what to do. Did offering the cucumber and pita, did that insult the man? Did saying no insult him more? How should they handle these last few bites? They had never given such thought to such scraps.
But they offered them to him. It wasn't much, they knew, they said, but they offered them up nonetheless. And the bum, the man, he stood there, looking at them. Was he wondering what to do? Was he moved beyond words or actions? Was he even here at all?
He took the food and sat beside them. He ate, and smiled, and you would never know he had a limp. And the man next to him, when he saw the Russian pop out of the bar, he called him over and asked for more cigarettes. No, thank you, the bum told them, I don't really smoke.
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