Bruce found himself doing something he hadn’t done in the better part of a year: strutting down the street. It was intoxicating to see his feet hadn’t lost their ability to move with a swagger in their step.
He pressed himself to recall the last time he’d won a negotiation before this afternoon. There had been plenty of pleading with the bank not to foreclose on him, and begging for someone to hire him at countless job interviews, but this deal with the school teacher finally ended the longest dry spell of his life.
Like riding a bike.
Bruce read the name on the bill: Hamilton. It had been so long since he’d seen one, he’d forgotten which president was on it. When he was a big shot, he would’ve never touched a denomination this small, not even to blow his nose with. Now, it was his most prized possession since he’d moved into the park.
He chuckled to himself imagining the look on Hakeem’s face when he bought tonight’s bottle of cheap whisky with an actual ten dollar bill. Hakeem was sure to shit bricks at the sight of it. Most of the time, Bruce dumped a mountain of coins and one dollar bills on the counter that he’d accumulated over a couple of days.
Bruce looked up to see where he was, and for the first time, noticed the stares he was getting from the people who actually spared a glance at him. Most were too busy orchestrating deals on their phones, hailing cabs, or talking to one another to even notice him. He was just another derelict who’d ventured into the financial district, and as long as he wasn’t hassling them for money, they were more than willing to ignore him.
His throat ran dry. The half bottle of whisky he’d poured down his throat today felt like a distant memory.
Why? Of all the places to meander to, why’d my feet carry me here?
Muscle memory, he supposed.
He felt himself shrink under their hostile gazes. For a moment, he hugged his ten dollar bill tight to his chest in fear, though not because he believed any of them would waste the effort to try and take it from him. They were all like him. Or rather, they were all like he once was. Bruce cradled the bill closely because it was the closest thing he had to a security blanket.
Please, he begged. Please don’t let any of them recognize me.
Though he was being analyzed by some hostile eyes, he was grateful there wasn’t the faintest hint of recognition in any of them. He had marched up and down this street proudly for a whole decade, but that old version of him was clearly long forgotten.
His eyes scanned up and down the sidewalk. So much was still familiar. Emilio was still running his taco stand at the corner, with his usual line of twenty people taking a late lunch. Rebecca was lazily waving people in and out of the paid parking lot while never putting down the latest book she was wearing out. Even old Mr. Garrison was leading a group of executives into his limo to head off to some restaurant or golf course to conduct some business.
So much looked the same, and yet everything felt so foreign. No one in a power suit sharing the side walk recognized him, but at the same time, he didn’t recognize any of them either. They all looked much younger than he was when he was trading stocks.
A slight breeze picked up, ripping a napkin from the hands of one of Emilio’s customers. Bruce watched it dance along the sidewalk until it brushed up against a building whose windows and doors were boarded up. His breath caught as he took in the monstrosity for the first time in years.
The building was the old Midwest branch of Preston and Moore.