He was always standing out in front of the local grocery store with a cart full of his bundled belongings. He was a large man, tall and somehow strong looking, though his torn and threadbare clothing gave him a vulnerable look. He wore a thin green jacket over an old army t-shirt that looked like it had been through World War II.
His beard was long and scruffy, mostly dark gray mingled with white and it reminded me a little of Santa Claus. His hair matched his unkempt beard as it fell to his shoulders, the top covered by a navy blue wool cap that was pulled down low over his ears. His eyes were always halfway closed like he was tired or bored. Or perhaps he was just too ashamed to open them fully and risk seeing something unkind in the eyes of passerby.
For me he was a fixture at Lucky’s, a permanent part of the scenery and I began to look forward to seeing him there. There was something about him that made me love him even though I didn’t even know his name.
Once I put a quarter into the candy machine just inside the store. I came back out and held my small eight year old hand out to him, offering him that candy like it was some kind of wonderful that would take all his cares away. He put up his ageless wrinkled hand, with its huge dirty fingers and smiled. It was the first time I had ever seen his teeth and I found myself surprised because their pristine whiteness didn’t match the rest of him. “No thanks,” he said. “You’ll enjoy that more than I would.”
One day he wasn’t there anymore. I don’t know why or where he went, or if anyone else noticed he was gone. But I noticed and I missed him.
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