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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1248514-The-Beggar-Who-Gives-Alms
by Deome
Rated: 13+ · Short Story · Young Adult · #1248514
A homeless boy finds his own way to make a difference.
The boy sitting on the sidewalk seemed out of touch with his surroundings. He his head was sunk into his arms, which were curled around his huddled knees, and he only lifted it to ask the odd passerby on this lonely street, “Could you spare some change?” He didn’t seem interested one way or another; when he was ignored he didn’t seem to notice the offender, and when some kindly soul would stop and fumble in his pocket for change the boy would accept it, remaining as unaffected as if the almsgiver had simply passed him by.

He was wearing a ragged orange wool sweatshirt, black baggy jeans that were wearing out to gray, and a torn black beanie pulled down almost past his eyes that glinted out at anyone who he happened to favor with a glance (which wasn’t often). He a look about him that seemed to state that he’d moved past despair long ago, and as for his age he could have been anywhere from sixteen to thirty six—so hidden was his appearance under his distractingly pitiful clothes; one passing in the street wouldn’t wish to study this boy any further than need be. Yet a boy he was, in dress if not in obvious appearance; a boy-man in his thirties, or a man-boy broken early in the morning of life.

Hours passed as the day waned, and even when the pedestrian traffic picked up as the evening began, the boy never varied his pose or routine, remaining curled up like a gargoyle guarding the empty storefront. He spanged with diligence, if not enthusiasm, and finally as the evening passed imperceptibly into night—for in the city such distinctions are rarely noticed—he finally pulled himself up, stretched, and drifted more than walked away from his post.

He wandered purposefully down one street, then another, cutting through an alley here and waiting for a crosswalk there, still moving wearily but gracefully. It seemed he had no destination in mind, that one direction was as good as another, and that he was in no hurry to reach any final resting place. However, he finally stopped in front of a building that he knew to be a shelter, though no outward signs would confirm this for any who had no need of such a place. With the exception of the ambiguous worn lettering about the door, “Greenhouse”, no indication remained that this building had ever been used. The windows were tinted light black and were only just a bit cracked in places, as were the glass doors leading inside. While most passers might think it was a slum and keep moving, he knew it to be a haven.

It wasn’t the building that held the boy’s interest though. Outside, curled up like a reflection of himself only an hour earlier, was a young girl. While he defied any description of age, she still embodied it: she could have passed for fifteen or twenty, but definitely still hovering on the cusp of childhood and woman, and as yet unbroken. She was dressed in similarly dirty black jeans as his, though she was fortunate enough to have a warm black hoodie with a worn band logo, a lip ring, and the small hoop earrings one might see on boys as well as girls, and almost hidden in the sleeves of her hoodie a cigarette burned between her fingers.

She rose when she saw him shuffling down the sidewalk, her cheeks glowing red from either cold or joy--the day being too miserable to tell—and she moved quickly, though not running, to embrace the boy; she wrapped her arms around his waist, placing her head on his chest momentarily for a minute before letting go. They looked at each other, neither speaking, until she passed him the cigarette still burning between her fingertips. He took a long drag from it, the cherry flaring brightly and leaving a growing trail of ash as he inhaled. Handing it back to her, he exhaled with relief. Then, reaching into his pocket he removed a few crumpled bills and a large handful of change, which she accepted with her hands cupped like a church angel missing its basin. She then stuffed the fortune into her pocket, offered the boy another too-quick hug, and then as he turned away, she jogged inside the empty-looking building as he shuffled off down the street.
© Copyright 2007 Deome (deome at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1248514-The-Beggar-Who-Gives-Alms