The Changing of the Guard

By Django Wexler

     On the corner of Park Avenue and Fortieth street, an old man stands, every day. He's one of the many slightly crazy people who inhabit the streets of the city, and after a while, they all fade into the background. He stands tall, with an almost martial bearing, and he wears a plaid shirt and pants, even in summer. Every day, he stands on the corner and talks. He talks continuously, not to anyone or anything in particular. You always walk past too fast to hear more then snatches of his words, fragments that almost make sense. You don't stop to listen to him, of course. You've got a train to catch, or work to get to.
     He's there every day, though. In the rain, he stands under a nearby awning, but he's still there. His eyes don't match up with the constant movement of his mouth. Instead, they scan the crowd. Watchful.

     It was Monday, and I was walking towards the train, as I always do. And, as always, the old man was waiting at the corner. As I approached, though, I could tell that something was different. The old man muttered a few phrases, and then stopped. A few of the passersby threw him curious glances. He'd never stopped before. Then they shrugged, and continued on their way.
     I stood for a moment, though, and looked at the old man. He was casting about him, searching for something that wasn't there. There was a look in his eyes; sad, resigned, and plaintive all at once. Despite his apparent madness, he'd never looked sad to me before. The old man always held himself with a kind of dignity.
     Then I shrugged. I had a train to catch. As I walked, I cast a glance up at the sky, and the rapidly darkening clouds. I made it into the station just as the first raindrops started to fall.

     The next day was hellish. It was as if the sluices of Heaven had been opened, full blast. The rain fell like there would be no tomorrow. I took the subway to work, rather then walk, but I still got soaked ducking from station to office.
     Everything seemed to go wrong, that day. Phone lines were down. Power went out twice, causing no end of havoc. Even the fast-food place got my order wrong. The rain cast a pall over the city, beating down on every rooftop out of the gray, gray sky.
     The subways were out by the time work was over. Water on the tracks, I suppose. I walked, and got soaked. Some rainstorms make you happy, carefree, apt to jump around and swing on lampposts and sing. This was not one of them.
     I was miserable by the time I got to the corner. The old man was sitting, not standing, in his spot under the awning. He was all huddled up, as if from the cold. He looked miserable too.
     Just ahead of me, on the nearly-deserted sidewalk, was another man, tall and young. I noticed him because of his attire; a suit, apparently made of some kind of plastic, the color of a blue neon sign. He walked stiffly, fully erect, arms at his side, and put in mind of a soldier at a parade ground. He ignored the pounding rain, even when it plastered his hair to his face.
     The old man looked up when the man in the suit approached, and there was joy in his eye. He stood, stiff and martial as always, and the young man stopped in front of him. The two regarded each other for a second. I couldn't see the young man's face, but the old man's expression seemed clear as a book. What kept you?, he said, with his eyes more then anything else.
     The two stood for a few moments more, and then the old man turned on his heel, abruptly, and walked further down the sidewalk. I watched him go, as I stood there in the pouring rain. I watched as he turned the corner and vanished into the cavernous vaults of Grand Central Station. I could have followed him.
     Instead, though, I stood, and waited. The man in the blue suit walked out into the rain, took up the position the old man had always taken. And then, with a sense of something long-delayed happening at last, he began to speak, not to anyone or anything but to the world in general. For a brief instant, he looked at me, and a smile crossed his face.
     Then I shrugged, and walked out into the rain, down towards the station. I had a train to catch.
     The rain had stopped by the time I got home.

     On the corner of Park Avenue and Fortieth street, a young man stands, every day. He's one of the many slightly crazy people who inhabit the streets of the city, and after a while, they all fade into the background. He stands tall, with an almost martial bearing, and he wears a slowly fading blue suit, even in summer. Every day, he stands on the corner and talks. He talks continuously, not to anyone or anything in particular. You always walk past too fast to hear more then snatches of his words, fragments that almost make sense. You don't stop to listen to him, of course. You've got a train to catch, or work to get to.
     He's there every day, though. In the rain, he stands under a nearby awning, but he's still there. His eyes don't match up with the constant movement of his mouth. Instead, they scan the crowd.

     Keeping watch?
The End

Django Wexler is a writer, role-player, wargamer, and programmer living in Westchester New York. He will be attending Carnegie Mellon University this fall.

E-mail: khaine@mindless.com

URL: http://mercury.tiedrich.com/~django/