The noise of the big city in a distance was heard faintly by the old man, as he made his way through the messy, narrow road that lead to his small house. It was the daily trip he took to and from his house to the little cigarette shop he owned, three streets from where he lived. He got used to the bumpy road, the gasoline lamps, the smell of late night cooking and the sound of that radio somewhere. He got used to all this that he could almost tell what song will be on the radio on a certain night, or what will his neighbor cook for the weekend. It was all so predictable. Nothing in the old man’s life was catchy or interesting, just another person whom we see daily, and whom we’re either accustomed to overlook, or give a quick glance, maybe even wonder how old he might be. It was almost mechanical, the trip to and from his house, how he sat in his little shop, various people passing him by everyday, all of them wanting a cigarette. Some of them bought a whole packet; some begged him for one cigarette. The old man knew how hard life can be, so he gave them what he could. He knew very well that smoking is a killer, but who said that these people weren’t more than just walking corpses. Smoking was just something to make their deaths plausible.
The old man remembered almost everyone who passed by him everyday, though none of them ever took a second to ask him even about his name. The only business they wanted from him was to get them their cigarettes, and the only business he wanted from them was entertaining his boring, lonely hours. He, by time, could tell who’s who in the crowd. The ‘very important people’ from those who pretend to be one, their problems and why they needed a cigarette. He thought that, looking at people and taking time to see their faces, was what made him understand them, though nobody really took the time to look back at him.
Days passed by the old man, sometimes boring, as in seeing almost the same faces everyday, and sometimes it came with new momentary-friends, so to speak. One day, a young man passed by him, asking him about a certain address that was written down on a piece of paper. The old man looked up at the young fellow, and smiled, remembering the day he was forced out of the school because his father didn’t have enough money. He looked at the young man, and told him he couldn’t read. He didn’t need to read to live. Sometimes it seemed that all he needed was just to sit in his little shop, observing people. That was his sole teacher in life.
The old man longed for someone to sit down and talk to him, but people were always too busy to even turn their heads around. He saw in every young man his lost youth and in every little child, playing in front of him in the street, the family which he never had. He’d look at the children in his street, while playing football in front of his shop, clapping his hands every time one of them scored a goal. The little children never really paid attention or looked at him, they were too busy playing, but the old man was never too tired to applause.
One day, the old man didn’t show up in his shop. Many people passed by his little shop, without noticing the little closed door. One young man, who used to buy cigarettes from the old man for a long time, saw the closed door. He approached it quietly, and without a second glance, asked a man, sitting in front of the next shop, if he knew a nearby cigarette shop. The man directed him to one, and the young man went on his way.
The bumpy road, the gasoline lamps, the smell of late night cooking and the distant sound of the radio, all remained, it were only the old man’s heavy, slowly, yet steady steps that were no longer heard. The shop remained closed, unnoticed, people remained busy and life went on.
TheEnd
N.H.
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