He finished the California roll, making sure to completely submerge it in the bowl of wasabi and soy sauce before consuming it whole. His nose was still stinging and he was on the verge of tears as he drank the last of the hot tea. He held the cup and sat completely still, waiting for the nasal sensations to pass, putting on a brave face for the petite waitress slowly circling him, her lone customer, like a vulture.
He tried to ignore her, letting his eyes wander around the room, the walls of which were painted bright red. White speakers hung in the corners from the ceiling. Jazz music played throughout the little Japanese restaurant. After a moment, he set the cup down on the yellow table, gathered his belongings and stood to leave. He barely escaped unharmed as the waitress swooped in and cleared the table with blinding speed.
Once outside, he took a deep breath. It was the first Friday of November and a beautiful day. The blue sky and warm temperature betrayed any sense of autumn. He daydreamed about finding a peaceful park bench where he could write away the afternoon, be a few words closer to finishing his novel, a simple story by a simple engineer.
What a perfect way to spend the day, he thought, as he walked back to work. It was tempting, so tempting that he promised not to look at any of the benches he passed along the way. He doubted he could resist their calls to sit and stay awhile.
So, he returned to work with his head down, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, despite the warmth, and eyes focused on the sidewalk in front of him. Yet, as fate would have it, there was a noise as he passed the last bench of the last park. Curiosity got the better of him. He looked.
Whatever caused the sound was gone. All he saw was an old, homeless man sitting on the bench, a grocery cart full of possessions parked next to him. He wore torn black jeans, old black boots and a heavy, dark blue ski jacket with a rip in the left shoulder. A dark green skullcap covered his head. His beard was full and gray and his skin was shades of pink with brown smudges.
He sat hunched over a dilapidated notebook, furiously scribbling with a generic black pen. A stack of worn notebooks sat next to him. They were warped and muddied, the pages discolored, their edges frayed.
He wondered what the old man was writing. Was he doodling? Was he recording his daily observations? Or was he, perhaps, finishing the last pages of the next great American novel?
That would be something, he thought, as he neared the corner, the man almost out of sight. Waiting for the light to change, he shook his head and laughed at himself. He was always coming up with the most cliched and ridiculous notions. It could never happen in real life. Only in fairy tales could the ugly beast become the handsome prince or the simple engineer become the brilliant writer.
Before crossing, he took one last glimpse back. In a quiet park, on a wooden bench, sat an old, homeless man pouring his thoughts onto pages the same color as the leaves at his feet. Wouldn't that be something, though, if beyond all appearances, the man was the next great American author? He let the fantasy tickle his brain all the way to the office.
