Accomplice

A page of random prose from an old journal.

“Everybody wants to get rich!” His eyes rolled over to me as he spat the words from a toothless grin. I tried not to let him know I had heard him, so he repeated his words of wisdom. “Everybody wants to get rich!” His voice was like gravel from a lifetime of smoking discarded cigarettes butts and drinking cheap booze. Although he carried no bottle, he walked with uneven steps. The old man looked as if he had just picked his clothes out of a trash can and he smelled like one too. He kept one hand buried in his pocket, while his other arm swayed back and forth as if guided by some imaginary string. The street was empty of cars, which is common at five in the morning. I crossed over to the other side. I wasn’t afraid of the old man; I just didn’t want to hear him repeat that catch phrase all the way down Park Avenue.

 

Later that morning, as I was browsing through the sidewalk merchandise on Canal Street,  I noticed a young couple looking at some used lamps in front of a small hardware store. Just as I passed by, an old homeless man (who looked familiar) came out of an alley connecting Canal to Walker Street. He pointed to me and yelled in his cracked voice, “He knows! He he he! He knows!” A few tourists turned to look at him, and then at me. I just shook my head in confusion. What did I know? I wasn’t sure he was the same old man from earlier that day. He walked over to the hardware store and pretended to also be shopping for the lamps. Then he pulled the young woman’s handbag from her shoulder and limped quickly through the crowds and disappeared into the dark alley.