Short Story / Soldier of New York's Street Corners (Analysis)

“Take these; I no longer need them,” he said, his arm out stretched.

I looked into the grubby palm of the man who had been stained by society’s waste. Why should he be on the street and not the opressive CEOs of conglomerates? What made him the weak link? Why should he have no roof over his head when many had more than enough?

In that palm was a strand of wooden beads and stones, red, black, and brown on a single strand.

I looked at the homeless man, still wondering why he was on a street corner in the dead of December; how could anyone allow themselves to be this cold and neglected?

“What? You think you are too good for these? Let me tell you something, kid. These beads were my sign of youth. Through everything, I had them. Every concert, every opium den, every brothel I decided to enter. And you are telling me that you want to see the sign of my youth dropped into the gutter by some useless rent-a-cop? Screw you, pal.” This entire monologue rushed out of his mouth, seemingly in a single breath.

He withdrew his hand and put the beads back into the pocket of his shredded coat, nestling them against his cigarettes and his trusty Bic.

“No, I’m not too good for them. It just might be that they are too good for me. I’m not the best person in the world.”

“No one is a good person. We’re all a load of shit that is blessed enough to walk the Earth,” he retorted.

Skepticism must be the final stage of life. My mother died lying in her bed, calling my significant other useless and my love for her a lie. My father died fighing in a war he did not truly believe in. Maybe this man was about to die on the cold pavement as a useless limb of society, skeptical of the entire world?

“I would be honored to have them, if you would reconsider,” I mumbled, embarassed that I had offended someone so easily.

“I don’t just offer my youth as something to be mocked.”

“You can trust me. Perhaps we can talk about this more inside somewhere?”

He looked at me, schocked at my ignorance. Obviously he would be inside somewhere if he had anywhere to go, so why should I have asked?

“I would love to invite you to my place…” I began.

“Yea, but I might ruin your expensice upholstery or your friggin precious wallpaper or whatever,” he finished, smiling at his own sense of humor.

I couldn’t help but smile back, thinking that he would at least die happy; poor, without a purpose, but happy.

Some people are too proud for help, and here was one of these miraculously vain people. He would rather look like a complete mess and love off of the lefotvers looted from the dumpster than accept a free meal or shelter for the night, even on an evening as chilling as this.

“What are you smiling at?”

“I like your sense of humor. Sorry…” I said, looking at my feet for the first time during this entire situation.

“What made me unique enough to be offered these beads if you don’t jsut hand your youth out to everyone?” I asked after a moment of silence.

“You are me as I was almost twenty years ago,” he said simply. “When offered that first hit, don’t take it. Leave the person who offers it to you, even if it hurts you. There will be someone else, but you have to be free to embrace the chance to love again.”

“Are you trying to tell me that my Rachel will try and get me to take drugs?” I asked with my own trace of skepticism.

“Whoever the fuck it is, don’t let them own you like I was owned. Screw someone else telling you that you need something so that you can stay with them. They aren’t worth changing for.”

“So? What happened with your second girl?”

“I was stuck with this bitch who kept me pepped up on pills, and I wasn’t able to tear myself away to be truly happy with that someone else. I regret it every day. That nagging voice says ‘what if’ every time I try to sleep.”

“Oh…,” I said, not knowing what to say to this tragic plot line.

“Just take the beads, leave me here, and remember not to relive my life now that you know that bad things are on their way.”

I looked at the wooden beads in my hand, dalmation stone interlaced among them.

“Can I do one last thing?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, thinking why not? If I could do something to make him feel better in the embrace of death he reeked of, why shouldn’t I?

“Kneel down to my level and hand me the beads,” he said quietly, looking strong and noble beneath all of the dirt that covered the weathered face.

I did as I was asked, and he gently placed the beads around my neck, lining the stone down my chest.

“Don’t lose them; perhaps a third generation of our family will need them to see the truth,” he said with his final words. And with this I realized, my father had died on a cold street fighting the war against drug addiction, not against the commis of ‘nam.

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