The Regret
A loonie.
An eleven-sided, gold-coloured coin with the queen on the front. On the back: a bird on water, CANADA DOLLAR, 1987.
Russ lifted the coin from his pants pocket only once he was sure he was out of view of the batcave beggar girl with holed fishnet stockings and a sheepish, sweet smile. He was thrown from his whimsy, and couldn't focus on where he was supposed to go next. Perturbed that he just shook his head quickly when she asked if he had any spare change. Tried to dismiss the incident as her having caught him off guard and she'd get money from someone else. Didn't do any good.
Something about the girl gave him the impression that she was much more needy than anyone he'd ever encountered. Maybe it was the way she sat patiently, on cement, at the entrance to the boarded up old pizza shop. Perhaps it was that she was slim, maybe to the point of frail, somehow evading gaunt. He saw that she was pretty; much more so than the girls at the university who dressed the same way. And she sat more upright than them, held a straighter posture, and was evidently more gracious. Hands cupped. Legs together. Not blinking her black marble eyes. This was very odd. He'd remember her fifty years from now, he knew it. Thought of her as the virgin pauper princess, on whom the magic wand of poverty cast a spell. Not her fault that she was homeless, without food, without boyfriend. Nothing she could do about it. Needed help.
All this sifted through his mind as he walked on, ignoring the few oncomers, his eyes glued to the coin held by the forefingers of both his hands, studying every conceivable angle. As he passed into bright sunlight and the rays hit the coin square -causing a penetrating reflection- Russ shielded the coin with one hand and focused in on it. Even as he ambled across the street; even though he hadn't checked the walk signal.
One thing was certain: he wished he would have given the girl his dollar. To say the least. Wished he'd looked her in the eye, like she did to him.
An eleven-sided, gold-coloured coin with the queen on the front. On the back: a bird on water, CANADA DOLLAR, 1987.
Russ lifted the coin from his pants pocket only once he was sure he was out of view of the batcave beggar girl with holed fishnet stockings and a sheepish, sweet smile. He was thrown from his whimsy, and couldn't focus on where he was supposed to go next. Perturbed that he just shook his head quickly when she asked if he had any spare change. Tried to dismiss the incident as her having caught him off guard and she'd get money from someone else. Didn't do any good.
Something about the girl gave him the impression that she was much more needy than anyone he'd ever encountered. Maybe it was the way she sat patiently, on cement, at the entrance to the boarded up old pizza shop. Perhaps it was that she was slim, maybe to the point of frail, somehow evading gaunt. He saw that she was pretty; much more so than the girls at the university who dressed the same way. And she sat more upright than them, held a straighter posture, and was evidently more gracious. Hands cupped. Legs together. Not blinking her black marble eyes. This was very odd. He'd remember her fifty years from now, he knew it. Thought of her as the virgin pauper princess, on whom the magic wand of poverty cast a spell. Not her fault that she was homeless, without food, without boyfriend. Nothing she could do about it. Needed help.
All this sifted through his mind as he walked on, ignoring the few oncomers, his eyes glued to the coin held by the forefingers of both his hands, studying every conceivable angle. As he passed into bright sunlight and the rays hit the coin square -causing a penetrating reflection- Russ shielded the coin with one hand and focused in on it. Even as he ambled across the street; even though he hadn't checked the walk signal.
One thing was certain: he wished he would have given the girl his dollar. To say the least. Wished he'd looked her in the eye, like she did to him.
posted by Erich Schmidt | 11:10 AM
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