The Gift of Time

My time here has not been very pleasant.

This lonely stretch of concrete has been my home for nearly three decades. I have seen so many others like myself come and go, in brackish waves and trickles, as though humans with no home were as fluid as the tides.

Sometimes I wonder if the hundreds of Footsteps passing by each day even see me, or if they assume that my grey, ashen face is simply another enigmatic statue placed here to fill up the concrete.

I struggle to remember a time when I was not fixed in place, when I poured forth of my own accord and out of desire rather than necessity. I think of my mother and her conviction to raise a troubled young man by herself. Even as her sickness claimed her, the blazing fire of her eyes left a warm spot within me that has kept me from becoming truly stagnant.

Time has begun to mean very little to me. I can recall how easy it was to beg money from the Footsteps in the beginning, and also how easy it was to spend in the shadows. Those days were about immediate pleasures, about feeling some kind of purpose, about feeling some control over my life.

In recent years, money from the Footsteps is rare. Who would throw money at a statue? Especially one without a fresh pool of water at its feet, offering some self-serving wish in return? I can hardly blame them, even though the only pleasure I long for these days is a few bites to eat, there was a time when they would have been right about me.

I am deteriorating as if I truly were some sun-bleached stonework. I believe the sickness that took my mother has come to call at my curb. It won’t be long now.

This little black notebook, my only possession, used to be filled up with funny little sayings, twisted thoughts, and whispers of the demons in my head. Even those constant companions have washed away, though there are some pages remaining to be written. It came to me by chance, in a purse stolen by another and left behind as invaluable. It has become priceless to me. These days, I scribble notes about the Footsteps that are the thread upon which my life hangs. In the last year or so, the only remaining strand is a young man who works at the convenience store across the street.

Each night, as he closes up the shop, he brings me some leftover food that I suspect is his own lunch. I find it hard to meet his gaze for fear that he may judge my darkened eyes as unworthy of his mercy.

But he doesn’t seem to mind my deplorable state, always bidding me a good night before he heads off. I can only cough out a pitiful thank you as I accept salvation. The cough that has been slowly getting worse.

But today, everything changed. I found something.

I noticed a glint in the mud, and like a crow, I was inescapably drawn to it. As I uncovered the item, my own muddy hands making little headway, I discovered that it was a watch. The name underneath the crystal was obscured but it felt heavy and well made. There was only one place a person like myself could bring an item such as this: a pawnshop.

This particular pawnshop is known for being a bit sketchy, and willing to accept items under dubious circumstances. I have brought several items here over the years, but never received more than a few dollars at a time. I expect more of the same, hoping only to be able to purchase my food tonight so that the young man will be able to eat his own.

As I walk into the musty, cramped shop, I hear raised voices. The shop owner often argues with his patrons, relying on their desperation in order to make his money. The owner and his most recent seller are going at it near the counter, and so I slink around the store to wait. I peer at the junk lying in heaps on the shelves, making sure that I am clearly visible to the owner so that I won’t be suspected of stealing.

Finally, the negotiations come to a pause as the exasperated customer shouted about needing to make a call. The owner’s attention snaps to me and he calls me over with a sneer, looking pointedly at my hands and pockets. I watch his nose shrivel as I approach.

I fumble for the watch and lay it on the counter with shaky hands. I don’t bother to meet the beady eyes glaring out from his fat, bald head. I know from experience they will be coldly devaluing myself and my items.

He picks up the watch as though it might poison him but his posture stiffens as he examines it.

“So where’d you steal this one from, huh?”

I just shake my head.

“Sure, sure… Well, it's clearly a fake,” he comments dryly. “But I can still sell fakes. I’ll give you five bucks.”

Normally, five dollars would be life-preserving for me, but something in his tone makes me hesitate. I stick out my hand for the watch back. He places it there more gently than I’ve ever seen him be.

“Suit yourself…” he says nonchalantly. “But nobody else will buy it from you. You might as well sell it to me, get yourself a meal. You look like you could use it.”

I can’t disagree. I stand with my eyes cast downward onto the smeared surface. He has cleared the dial a bit.

“How’s about ten dollars, man?” The beady eyes grow bigger. My stomach growls.

Before I can accept, the other customer comes back to the counter. He is fuming.

“Another shop just offered me double what you did, ya cheapskate!” The man shouts with a raised fist. His nose crinkles as he comes up beside me.

The owner shrugs and tells the man to get lost. The patron glances at the source of the smell offending him. His eyes lock onto my watch.

“Woah…” He murmurs, looking from the watch to me. “Do you know what that is?”

I shake my downward-facing head.

“That's a Rolex, looks like a Daytona. My grandpa used to have one that looked just like it…”

I can only continue staring at the watch. It is almost as if the mud were cleaning itself from the piece as the man speaks, revealing the value that had long ago been obscured.

“This guy probably offered you pennies for it, didn’t he?!” The patron’s voice rises again.

“It's a fake!” The owner justifies.

“That looks real to me,” the man gestures in my direction. “And my grandfather sold his for over a hundred thousand!”

“Get the hell out of this store before I throw you out!” the owner bellows, enraged that his deception had been exposed.

“Fine, but if I were you,” the man turns to me. “I wouldn’t sell that here.”

With that, the patron leaves. The owner rounds on me.

“Listen, that guy didn’t know what he was talking about. It’s not worth a thing.”

I can hear the lie in his voice. I rip out a small piece of paper from my notebook and scribble, “Fifty thousand.”

The owner laughs, high and cruel. His demeanor changes once more, like the wolf that has had its sheepskin disguise removed.

“Alright man, here’s the deal, and it's the only one you’re gonna get....” He sucks in a deep, steadying breath.

“Twenty... thousand... dollars.”

My heart stops beating for a moment. I’ve never held more than a hundred dollars in my hand and to be offered such an astronomically high amount is almost more than my frail body can take. Still, it was less than a quarter of what the man said it could be worth. I jab a muddy finger to the note again.

“No way,” the owner shakes his head. “Twenty is the absolute most I will give a walking piece of trash. I can’t believe I’d even do that. Nobody else would. They’d just call the cops because it's pretty clear that this watch isn’t yours. Maybe I should call them, save myself the trouble…”

I shake my head fervently. I’ve spent plenty of nights in holding cells. The police don’t even ask questions when you look like me.

After a long moment, I nod. There is another moment of distrust as I pass him the watch, and he places an envelope in my decrepit grasp. My hand shakes as I take it, and so does his as he claims his prize. I don’t spare any time thinking of his profits as I have suddenly become richer than I had ever hoped to be.

As I exit the store, I am suddenly much more aware of my surroundings, more than I have been in a long time. Having something to lose is an unsettling feeling for one who's lived so long without it. The envelope in my pocket feels like an anchor.

I’m not sure what to do with it. There are no restaurants or hotels that will even allow me through the front door. I could maybe convince a cheap motel to let me purchase a room for cash, but now that I have value, I’m suspicious of my own reflection.

I find my way back to my usual corner just as the sun begins to set. A rough cough rattles through my body. There is blood on my hand as the fit subsides.

What good is money to a dying man? The best that I could hope for is a comfortable place to perish. If I had more time, maybe I could use it to become a member of the society that has looked down on me from the moment I was orphaned in it. A society that only has value for those with this same gift that I now find myself with. Would I even want that?

No, my resentment is too strong. There is no going back for me, if I was ever there to begin with.

I wonder what I would have done with it as a younger man. To be truthful, it would’ve only lasted days, likely mere hours. But maybe I could’ve stumbled into something good, something warm and decent. I guess I’ll never know.

I look up at the young man inside the shop as he moves about in silence. I watch as his manager berates him. The young man takes the verbal abuse stoically.

The manager eventually leaves and the young man continues to work diligently until he closes the store. He locks the door and makes his way across the street to me.

As he approaches, I look into his eyes for the first time and see the same fire that my mother’s had. I know now what I will do.

When he goes to hand me the food, I will refuse and instead give him the envelope. I am sure he will protest when he sees what is inside but I will insist.

To me, it is a small reward for the kindness that he has shown me. He gave me the gift of life and of time, as haggard as it may have been. I can only hope my gift is that of time as well so that just once, a worthy person can get a head start in this rat race the Footsteps call life.

Before I shuffle away to die, I will give him this notebook, in the hope that at least one person will know my story.

My time here has not been pleasant, but in this act, I feel fulfilled. One last gift from the young man. One last gesture of kindness. One last statue crumbling into the tide.