Beggar Man

People say that I'm narcissistic, that I have a tendency to forget about other people and only think of myself. I just like to tell people that I have self esteem, confidence. Screw them if they think that means I'm selfish. I'm doing just fine.

Every day is the same. I wake up at the crack of dawn, and run down Margo Street. I see the old beggar man who occupies a spot on the road, jingling a cup of coins. He's always dressed in the same tattered coat, brown and dusty. My head turns the in the other direction, and I pretend to not hear him. We both know I'm bluffing. I follow the curve in Margo Street down to the local coffee shop, and my usual order is waiting for me at the counter: A pumpkin spice latte with three pumps of sweetener. I slurp on my drink before putting on my Cafe Local apron, slipping behind the counter, and putting on a plastic smile.

Today, I jog down Margo Street, listening to my usual playlist, and as I round the bend, I see Beggar Man. His coins are clinking, and people drop dollar bills into the cup in his hand. Instead of an old coat, he is sporting a navy jacket. Again, I turn in the other direction, ignoring him. I think nothing of it. Again, I shuffle into Cafe Local, and again my latte is waiting. 

It's the crack of dawn again, six a.m., and Margo Street is dark and damp, morning dew coating the otherwise dry, firm grass. Beggar Man is plopped on his corner, but now he has a suitcase, stuffed with who knows what. His jar of bills is almost full, and the jangle is muffled as he packed his coins into a suitcase. I don't ask where Beggar Man is going. I honestly don't care. I run into Cafe Local  ten minutes before my shift starts, just for good measure. My three-pumped latte is waiting for me, and I slurp it down.

I plaster on a phony smile, run through Margo Street, and noticed that Beggar Man is missing. Instead, a sign had been shoveled into the ground. In thick, small writing, it read: Thank you for everything. I am back on my feet! I just keep jogging, until I round the bend to Cafe Local. I stride through the door -- and a latte is handed to me. Two pumps of sweetener. My face turns sour.

I look up to see the deliverer of this drink, about to ask if it can be returned, and I am staring at old Beggar Man. My eyes widen as I pretend to smile. He begins to speak. "You wouldn't know my name, no, but I know you. Everyday, at six a.m., you run down Margo. You look anywhere but at me, pretending I don't see you do it." I stand a little smaller. "You're gonna be fine, become some middle class working women. You'll have some kids and a partner who you only married out of obligation. But, you know what? You will never be as rich as me. Sure, I ain't got a penny, but at least I have compassion." He turns around and strides out the door.

Ten years later, what he said has come true. I work as a real estate agent, coming home with circles under my eyes and a noisy son. My husband is a handsome doctor, but I don't care for him and him not for me. Divorce papers are filed a few years later, and I get custody of  kid, Grayson. We still live on Margo Street, in a yellow brick house. But I don't have the time to run anymore. 

As he grows older, Grayson begins running through Margo Street every morning, at the crack of dawn. He sees an old man, begging for money on the side of the road. Every day, he drops a copper coin into the jingling cup next to the beggar man. Grayson doesn't know that his mother used to look away, too appalled by a tattered coat to look at the man inside of it. All he knows, is that every day, he runs down Margo Street and gives a coin to the man in need. All he knows, is compassion.