The doors of the university library opened just as a gust of wintery wind howled across the main concourse. An invisible frigid hand reached through the opening and turned pages of magazines and newspapers stacked on the front desk, startling the student attendant.
The reaction garnered a smile from the old man hunched alone at the table closest to the windows, just as it had the week before. This time, the aged skin around his eyes crinkled almost to the point of cracking. In this life, he didn’t smile too often. He didn’t have much cause to do so. Or so his story goes.
Sitting alone in the crowded university library, he found himself scanning the room trying to connect with any of the many pairs of eyes deliberately adverting his gaze. No one wanted to sit near the homeless man, much less acknowledge his existence with a simple friendly nod. Such a gesture of kindness wouldn’t cost anyone anything, but yet none came.
Seeing his reflection in the frosted window, he didn’t blame them much. He was quite a sight, definitely out of place in the world of academia and the warmth of the university library. If he had the choice, he wouldn’t sit next to the homeless man either.
The February afternoon darkened further as gray clouds gathering overhead blocked what was left of the sun. When the cold wind blew the doors open, disrupting the magazines and newspapers on the desk, it blew something else into the library: a red sweater with a wisp of a young lady wrapped inside.
From his table, farthest away from the door, the old man viewed the new arrival as she checked in with the student attendant. His eyes were once wide open and full of optimism like the students he had seen in his day, but that was long ago in his youth.
Just as the blue sky of this morning had been replaced by wintery gray, so had his blue eyes also been fringed by gray. They were now mere slits in a face weathered by both time and circumstances, a hard life none of the students filing in for research knew anything about, or at least not yet. Perhaps they would read about it one day in a book not yet published? He smiled once again. Youth was really wasted on the young.
Not unpredictable, his prolonged gaze at the red sweater had gotten the attention of a male student two tables away who nudged the student next to him. They were in deep conversation with a third as to what, if anything, to do about the dirty clothes hosting the shell of a dirty man — a man who had invaded their library and obviously didn’t belong. The conversation hastened as he made eye contact with the red sweater and followed it, with intent interest, walking across the library.
Finally deciding on a course of action, the three young students stood, made their way to his table and confronted him. He took mental notes as to what they were saying about the recent incidents on campus. It was very different than the reaction he had received just a week before. He smiled at the three as they suddenly stopped talking and watched as the red sweater slid into a seat opposite the old man.
The wisp of a young lady said, “Hello, Dad. These gentlemen aren’t bothering you are they?” Totally confused as to what had just occurred, the three pawns in his game quickly retreated and returned to their table in silence. Smiling at the students, she watched as they gathered their books and made their retreat outside.
His daughter asked, “How’s the new book coming? Last week it was a lawyer wearing a thousand-dollar suit, this week a homeless man.”
“Almost finished and it’s really been quite the journey. Never realized how much people actually judge you on the way you look and the clothes you wear. I think I’ll call it: ‘The King’s Wearing Clothes.’”
Arm in arm, father and daughter left the library, crossing the street to the local coffee shop to enjoy what was left of the afternoon. As they walked, the wind finally ceased, and the sun punched holes in the gray clouds allowing streams of light through to brighten the afternoon and take the chill out of the air.
After ordering, they chose a table next to the windows and sat down. She couldn’t help but notice the careful glances from nearby male students cast her way as she removed the red sweater, revealing the slim body of an athletic 20-year-old it had hidden.
Over the top of her coffee mug she whispered, “Really want to be judged simply by the way you look? Next week dress up as a woman.”
He smiled and replied; “Now that would make a great chapter, but I don’t think there’s enough makeup in the world to pull that one off.”
[Rick Ryckeley, who lives in Senoia, served as a firefighter for more than two decades and has been a weekly columnist since 2001. His email is storiesbyrick@gmail.com. His books are available at www.RickRyckeley.com.]
