A Sidewalk Dream by Alexander Mann

The sewage vent fog parted, there he was same time, same place. I’d walked by this man for the last year, every morning, always between 1st and the subway on Union Square. I often studied the people around me, never missing a face on route to my nondescript, skyscraping office. People moved past me with a punch of recognition, Deja Vu maybe, an extra in a dream or just another downbeat commuter in Manhattan. Happenstance. Only strangers. None had the same effect as him though, the man with one leg shorter than the other.

One leg hung off the floor, barely skimming the surface, he had a great branch for a crutch - snapped from a tree. I’d seen the same kind of movement on Broadway, a stilted artist. His short leg swung back and forth, as the other limb worked with the wooden prosthetic. The staff hit the pavement to its own beat; a deep pound against the clop of leather shoes. His face was gritty and a yellow smile looked out from his Moses beard. He might’ve walked off the set of a steam-punk Biblical Broadway show. Imagine that.

Through the year, I had moved up from a jerky smile to an uptight nod, then an inaudible greeting. When he held his hat out through the crowd, I would empty my wallet, waiting for something to happen. I had made up my mind to stop him, to communicate. Break my routine. He wasn’t aware of me, or anything; the suited sidewalk throng parted, shoaling away in a concentrated effort to avoid him. Gazes averted.

I made the approach. Before I could say a word, he fixed me with his sotted eyes as they came back into focus. I stood there like I’d been struck out.

You don’t look too good pal, here take this… He handed me the branch and I was a kid again.