Wednesday Morning Man

There once was an old man. He was a short man, over exaggerated by the hump on his back. He was there every Wednesday, on my walk to work. He held hostage in the skywalk, unitimidated by the throngs of people, the mass crowds of we, dressed in black on our way to the big offices. He blended in and stood out all at the same time; always dressed in a black suit, white collared shirt, no tie. He was balding, and the white hair he had saved was long, floating away from his head, almost as if he had rubbed a balloon on his scalp that morning.

He mumbled as we would walk past him. I could never make out the words he was saying, but I always smiled as I hurried past. A smile, that perhaps, was unnoticed. His glasses were so thick they made his eyes look smaller. In fact, you could barely see him. He was hunched over as he stood, head bent, eyes almost parallel to the ground. It gave him a turtle-like appearance, his suit jacket too big for his short torso and bunching up around his neck.

He never stood still, this Wednesday morning man. Almost as if his arthritis made it hard for him to stand solidly on both feet, he shifted from right to left. Not fast enough to look like he was dancing, but not so slowly either; he had the look of a small child who desperately needed to go to the bathroom.

I never talked to him. I never took one of his flyers. I could only guess they were about being saved, or the end of the world- that sort of thing.

But I smiled, because for some reason, this unitimidating Wednesday morning man, didn't make me nervous. He just provided something different to look at. Something to look forward to in the middle of the work week. While everyone was checking their watches and texting on their cell phones and grabbing a cup of overpriced cappuccino, he was there, standing, mumbling, waiting. Almost dancing. Ready for whatever came his way. Though no one usually did.

I wondered, if this Wednesday man had a family, had a wife to go home to at the end of his routine. Maybe she made him eggs and bacon every morning before he left to evangelize. Or maybe he had nothing and was looking for tips. Maybe he was homeless. I don't know. I wasn't there long enough to find out.

But every Wednesday I think of him. I wonder if he's still there, mumbling his incoherent words, trying to reach somebody.