The Movement

Chapter One - Part 1

Chapter One

It was a cold December evening in New York City. Busy with bright lights and life, the slushy sidewalks flowed with businessmen and women scurrying home from work. On the corner of East Main Street, an old rugged man donned his usual oversized hooded sweatshirt and patchy blue jeans, quietly huddled against the brick wall as the flux of home-goers ignored him, walking by without a single look in his direction.

A middle-aged man in a black, striped business suit took notice of the old homeless figure from across the street and approached him with haste under long, loud breaths. White puffs of warm fog ballooned from his mouth in the frigid air. The old man sat motionless; the middle-aged businessman glanced at the sorrow man’s long silver hair and beard shimmering in the moonlight, his deep face wrinkles hiding underneath his large droopy hood like a monk in a long prayer. The old man held a small white sign gripped tightly in his frozen fingers, as if it were his last worthy possession worth clinging to. In bold red print the sign read:

THE MOVEMENT WILL RISE AGAIN.

The middle-aged businessman, calming his breath, stopped in front of the old man, shook his head in pity, and flipped a shiny gold coin into the old man’s lap before merging back in with the constant flow of businessmen hurrying home to loved ones before the holidays.

Abruptly, the middle-aged businessman reappeared from the moving train of fancy suits with an intensified rush, flailing his arms through the air. He once again stopped in front of the old homeless man and pointed at him, screaming at the top of his lungs in a raspy voice fused with adrenaline.

 “You must go! I can’t stand to see you life this on the streets every day! I don’t ever want to see you here again, you filthy, worthless scum! You stain this nation, this civilization! Go! Go now!” he roared.

Again, the constant motion of suited men ignored the outlandish scene while the middle-aged businessman spit his angry words at the unresponsive old man. He began to pant, winded from his pent-up, sudden burst of electric anger.

The old man continued to look down at the wet, slushy pavement, as if he were frozen in place like the icicles hanging from the awning above him. After some deep thought in planning a response, the old man silently arose as if from the dead. His body cracked at every movable joint. His mouth grunted out white clouds as he stood. Standing, the old man revealed his daunting height and true age.

The old man began to walk, his joints still cracking, against the current of oncoming businessmen. The businessmen seemed undisturbed other than ricocheting off the invisible wall of stench that parted the onrushing crowd, equal on each side of the wide, sloppy sidewalk.

The two men proceeded in opposite directions, lengthening their distance from each other while the old man repeatedly flipped his coin into the icy thin air and back into his palm. The old man’s gimping walk completely contrasted that of the middle-aged businessman’s confident, furious strut.

Along with his new coin, the old man carried his small white sign in his opposite hand, its writing facing the buildings’ windows and walls.