Pass Me By

If someone were to ask me who a person was, I could give their life story potentially, as odd as that sounds. While some may consider this to be the behavior and knowledge of an upcoming stalker, it was truly much simpler than that. All I had to do was take a seat on the corner of 32nd and 56th streets with my Gibson acoustic and listen, while I tried to make enough money to afford some sort of meal. It was almost incredible how much knowledge a single person would spew out of their mouth when they spoke on their phone, to another person, or even the occasional sweetheart who chattered directly to me. Not to mention the visual information like the clothing style and overall appearance. In a matter of minutes, one could learn the name of the by-passers, where they were headed, and possibly the names and information of those they are speaking with, if not much more. And the best part was when they took the same route day after day and it was possible to find out even more about them, until it was as if we were best friends. When, one day, I have an epiphany and contemplate, “I know this person inside and out, yet we’ve never spoken before.”

Some may consider this psychic. I call it paying attention.



“Nicholas!”

My glazed-over, brown eyes flickered for a moment to the man in front of me, easily memorizing his features and the sound of his voice, recollecting his persona, knowing that I had seen this man before. His greased hair was parted down the middle, his thick bifocal glasses sliding down the bridge of his crooked nose, two Dunkin Donuts coffees in either hand, and a Life is Crap shirt tucked in much too tight, showing off his rounded figure. Before glancing back at the guitar strings and the calloused hands that continued to strum chords, I sent the middle-aged man a lopsided grin, flashing my yellowing teeth.

“G’day, Mr. McNally,” I spoke, receiving a small, toothless smile from the recently laid-off northeasterner. I couldn’t help but take notice of the smidge of bright pink lip gloss sticking to his bottom lip. “How’s the job search going?”

Mr. McNally sent me a confused stare and his smile was reduced to a thin line across his face, no doubt unable to comprehend how I was aware of this knowledge. That, or he had forgotten what he was supposed to be doing at this moment. As he set one of the cups of coffee down to my right, he murmured, “Good…”

Easily very confused, not forgotten. I thought to myself. But who could blame him? We had only officially exchanged greetings one week prior, directly after his boss laid him off. From that day forward, he has taken to visiting me – always wearing some sort of Life is Crap shirt and parting his greasy hair down the middle – and, instead of throwing coins in my hat, he would head over to Dunkin’s and buy a second coffee specially for me. I couldn’t complain, seeing as I barely had the money to provide food for my eighteen year old, growing body. However, we never spoke of anything to do with his personal life, including his employment status and I could tell I’d thrown him off.

“Good to hear.” My fingers halted against their places on the guitar as the temptation next to me called out my name. Rough hands slid down the base of the Gibson, discontinuing only when they reached the warm goodness beside me. In slow motion, I brought the Styrofoam cup to my lips and breathed in the scent, the scent of life, before finally taking a long gulp. The liquid burned my throat as it flowed down my esophagus, however in the cool October air the burning sensation was relief. There was no pain; there never was. “Thank you for the coffee.”

This seemed to temporarily cause the confusion in Mr. McNally’s pale blue eyes to dissipate. A new grin grew on his chapped lips.

“You are very welcome, Nicholas.”

My underdressed figure fell back against the bitter cold brick building, and I held the steaming coffee to my face. This coffee was surely a lifeline, keeping me warm in a way the baggy, stained white tee and cargo pants could not and for that I was thankful of the older man. However, I felt a twinge of anger for his wife, being stuck with a cheating bastard such as him. For an ugly man, he certainly got around, especially by telling every girl that he slept with how his wife was a terrible, abusive woman. In reality though, she was the one dying, not him.

My eyes looked over Mr. McNally, how he looked almost innocent just sitting in front of me sipping his coffee with no care in the world. However, I was sure the same thought crossed the minds of young girls who eagerly would run off with an old man if he claimed his puppy was lost, or he had candy. And those instances never ended well, clearly.

Holding on to that twinge of anger, I felt the question fly out of my mouth, “And your wife?”

“What?” From the sudden switch between innocence and downright frightened and angry, I could tell I may have just lost my coffee supplier. Now that it was out of my mouth, though, there was no going back. “What do you mean ‘And your wife’? What business do you have with that woman?”

Yep, I thought, removing the cup from my lips. Definitely angry, definitely frightened. Maybe also still a bit confused? Most likely.

“You know,” I continued, dropping the half-empty cup beside me to carry on with the song. “Her cardiologist had called about a week and a half ago, if I remember correctly. Is her heart doing alright? She doesn’t have any sort of cancer to the heart, does she? Is so, I send my condolences to her, and yourself.”

Mr. McNally abruptly stood as the words trickled off my tongue, grabbing both cups of coffee. A warning glare was sent in my direction, though no words exited his mouth otherwise. He didn’t have to say anything, for I already knew his forewarning. Not that it made much of a difference. Spinning around on his heel, I watched him storm off down a side street and waved goodbye to my last taste of life for awhile.

That’s alright, I thought, playing my guitar softer as a few similar-looking men passed me by, chatting on their cellular devices. One of them even had a young-looking woman clinging to his waist. There will be another Mr. McNally.

My fingers strummed some more and I allowed the simple chords to form a familiar song, . This ultimately caught the attention of a larger than normal group, and out of the corner of my eye I saw bills instead of coins being tossed into the hat and a smirk formed on my lips. I will be eating well tonight.

However, before I was given to revel in the amount of money being thrown at me, my eyes caught a familiar face, the face of an older woman. For a moment, her image reminded me of a distant memory, lost in the past, until I followed her horrified gaze and saw Mr. McNally with a young blond, wearing the same bright pink lip gloss. But the present’s image distorted, and I was looking not at the frail body of Mrs. McNally, but of the faraway memory. That woman with the long, frizzy brown hair and the pale face, with the emerald green eyes and purple bags under them. Who wore nothing but brown, except for her shoes, which were always green. And who had that devious grin, showing off all her pointed, yellow teeth.

That woman with no soul, and no happy ending. At least, no happy ending for those around her.

Before I could convince myself otherwise, I was speeding down the sidewalk in the opposite direction with my hat in one hand and guitar still slung off my neck, listening to the roars of complaints by the pedestrians.