Interlude

by Rothya James

 “If you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it.”

The homeless man sat on the park bench and waited for my answer. It was the same question put forth to me by the same individual on the same hour of the day for the last several months. his crystal blue eyes looked up at me with searching anticipation. There was a twinkle in those eyes and the only glimmer of what once was a handsome face on the leather, line-eroded mask he was now left with. A shimmering spark of long-lost youth that his emaciated body had to show from all the years of life lived. He looked up at me with those clear blue eyes, wearing a wry smile, waiting for my answer.

Prior to this daily occasion my doctor advised me to take a thirty minute walk every day. I did so in this very park. And the path I chose took me by the park bench this homeless man sat on each day seemingly waiting for my arrival. it was a daily encounter I had grown to expect.

Always coupled with the same phrase, “If you can guess what I have in my pocket, you can have it.”

The walks started when my doctor diagnosed that I was a diabetic, a malady that came to me in total surprise and astonishment. I was not overweight; I worked out diligently and was in excellent condition. I spent a lifetime monitoring my diet. Observation of my health was so intense it could be classified as a fault. Yet here I was, on my scheduled walk.

There seemed to be an epidemic of sorts plaguing our culture, and I was now swept up by this tidal wave of disease that was drowning our population. How in the world did I acquire diabetes? I was befuddled with the loss of an answer, and the only resolution I had was to take the advice of my doctor. Swallow my medicine and have my thirty minute walk each day.

For the first time in all these hikes, I stood in front of the homeless man and mulled over his statement. I taxed the recess of my mind trying to figure what on earth could be in this forsaken man’s pocket and whatever it might be, what would be its worth.

Perplexed by the dilemma, I finally looked down at him with a request, “Can you give me a clue?”

His wry smile split into a grin and he quickly responded, “What in life can you count on?”

I fingered the clue in my mind for a summary of moments, delving into the alternatives. Suddenly a rush of revelations came to me in one single word: “Nothing!”

The old man’s wide grin turned into a cackle. In a flash of a moment he stuck his hand into his pocket and reached out to expose an empty palm. “Here’s your prize.”

I viewed his vacant hand with my own brand of wry smile, then dug into my pocket and replaced the vacancy with a ten dollar bill.

His head snapped up in wonder, “What’s this for?”

“You got me buddy. Get yourself something to eat.”

“I won’t get food with this.”

“It’s your money; spend it the way you want.”

“Thanks, mister.”

“No thanks needed, enjoy.”

“Thanks, I will.”

I mused over his gratitude. “I  guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“May not have a riddle for you.”

“Doubt if I have ten bucks.”

With that, the old man started to cackle again. I spun around on my heels and walked away. As I continued my stroll down the path, the homeless man’s cackle faded into the trees. My thoughts of him lingered and a clarity of the experience evolved. I realized in my construction the message he inadvertently gave me. Life has no promise or guarantee, no rhyme or reason. It has nothing to offer but the adventure of life itself. There seems to be a string of episodes with no apparent arrangement, full of whimsical events and perhaps entwined in some grand plan; a fixture of a magical system. Setbacks should be expected because they are a part of the blueprint, and any prize you may win in life could be a disappointment.

And sometimes you can come out ten bucks ahead.

 © Rothya James Patterson