There was a small grey man who sat pitched against a stone pillar on the subway platform. he had a rough silver beard and ashen clothes that clung to his wiry frame. he was the subway’s lint trap, every piece of lint and fluff stuck to him, cast off thoughts tangled in his beard and feathers in his hair. He clutched a small cardboard sign reading “the end is nigh” in hasty black letters.
Harold was nothing like the subway man. Harold walked sharply and with purpose, with each hurried step the heel of his shoe ground determined into the pavement, as though he needed it to know he was going somewhere. It would have been a surprise to anyone who knew Harold, when he stopped abruptly in his path to stare back at the grey man who had caught his eye. Harold read the man’s warning and glanced at an empty disposable coffee cup that rested at his feet. Harold sighed, reached into his coat pocket to fish out some change. When the coins had hit the bottom of the cup and Harold had turned to leave the grey man gave an audible “Pfft!” Harold pivoted around, insulted. “Excuse me” he said. “Big help that’ll be” said the grey man and shook his sign.
“Why then, do you have that sorry cup?”asked Harold.
“For courtesy” nodded the man.
“ How is it courteous if you reject the money?”
“I’ll show you, sit with me”
Harold sat, his charcoal suit wrinkling with his brow as he wondered what on earth he was doing.
“Give me your hat,”
Harold did, marveling again at his own compliance.
“Now look” he said, shaking the small black hat, it had been a gift from Harold’s mother.
“All of this will be useless soon” this prophecy apparently queuing the hat which began producing dozens of quarters. They tumbled out of the hat and onto Harold’s lap, clinking as they found rest on the concrete.
Harold’s mouth hung open in a perfect “o,” the size of a dollar coin.
Harold’s eyes emerged from his daze to see the grey man, he looked cleaner. He was wearing Harold’s hat.
The grey man stood “I best be off, lots to do!”
“Wait!” said Harold "What is your name?" “Harold” smiled the grey man and walked away.
Harold the First looked down at his tattered grey clothes and stroked his silver beard.
“What does he know?” He asked himself clutching the cardboard sign. “ None of his ‘lots to do’ matter.”
Harold’s hurry slipped away slowly, replaced by a strong belief that the apocalypse loomed over. Things started to cling to him, bits of dirt, ticket stubs, dust and dread.
There was a small grey man who sat pitched against a stone pillar on the subway platform. He had a rough silver beard and ashen clothes that clung to his wiry frame. He was the subway’s lint trap, every piece of lint and fluff stuck to him, cast off thoughts tangled in his beard and feathers in his hair. He clutched a small cardboard sign reading “the end is nigh” in hasty black letters.
Cardboard man III
Geovanni Casillas
(ft. Cannon and Vincent as a tasteful background)
