The Window Shopper

There was a big part of me that was envious of the vagrant. He had no one to answer to and no one to prove himself to. Or so I thought. I had deadlines and endless nights without any sleep. He could sleep anywhere and no one would expect him in the morning. No one would even notice if he didn't wake up or show his face around here.

Each morning on my way down Sycamore, I thought to myself, Sycamore is such a pleasant name for a street. There's no way that a desperate and penniless soul would condemn himself to living a life quite the opposite on a street with this demeanor.

And each night, I would pass him and nod on my way home. He would always smile at me and I wondered--very sincerely--what he had to smile about.

One day I realized--and I remember it quite clearly because it was a Friday and I had so much to look forward to in the weekend ahead--that he must have nothing to look forward to. His home was made of cardboard. His clothes were not his own. His fingers were blue and numb from the cold.

But on Sunday, while carrying my morning paper and deciding whether I wanted a croissant or a pastry, whether I wanted to go to the brasserie or the cafe, and whether I wanted to sit inside or on the porch, I was suddenly very cognizant of what I had. The vagrant was wiping away the condensation on the foggy window of a newspaper dispenser. He didn't have the fifty cents to pay for the paper, so he was reading the cover through the glass. He was reading it so intently that his breath was fogging it up and he would have to keep wiping away his own obstruction.

I had a hole in my throat.

So I gave him my paper.

As it turns out, what I had all along was the choice.

And for different reasons now and because of the infiltration of pragmatism--I most certainly---

would've noticed.