The dime obliterates my misfortunes. It
annihilates my poverty. For an instant, having annihilated poverty and
misfortune with a dime, the man or woman is happy. An instant of security
strengthens his wavering spirit.
* * * * *
Thus my beggar whom I have grown quite fond of as I write. I would write
more of him and of the marvelous person in me whom he is continually
belaboring with his slapstick and bladder. But I remember suddenly a man
in a wheel chair. A pale man with drawn features and paralyzed legs. It
was at night in North Clark Street. Lights streamed over the pavements.
People moved in and out of doorways.
And this man sat in his wheel chair, a board on his lap. The board was
laden with wares. Trinkets, pencils, shoestrings, candies, tacks,
neckties, socks. And from the front of the board hung a sign reading,
"Jim's Store--Stop and Shop."
I remember this creature with a sudden excitement. I passed by and bought
nothing. But after five days his face has caught up with me. A sallow,
drawn face, burning eyes, bloodless lips and skinny hands that fumbled
among the wares on his board. He was young. Heroic sentences come to me.
"Jim's Store--" Good hokum, effective advertising.
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