Buck and Wing

In a modest storefront on one of the main avenues of downtown Seacoma is Sherman Pianos, Inc. Sherman Pianos has occupied the space for over seventy years, and despite the myriad changes in popular musical taste, shopping habits, and fundamental character of the city itself, Sherman stands firm. Save for the Mayfair Hotel, all the businesses that for decades kept Sherman Pianos company on the block—Paris Lunch and Billiards, Triangle Pharmacy, Weisman and Sons Jewelers—have been swept away by a glossy indoor mall of fragrant shops with coy and insinuating names like B.N. Genius, Chocoholics, and Dimples.

The opening of the mall was much heralded by civic leaders and media, who with tremulous hope proclaimed the beginning of a “downtown renaissance.” But renaissance is fleeting, coyness evanescent, and commercial reality the enemy of sentiment. Within two years of the much-heralded opening, more than one of the new shops had its doors padlocked and its windows papered over. New enterprises appeared in the spaces still haunted by the shades of the first, and one may be certain that among these are some that will go the way of their predecessors.

All of this has been taken with detached equanimity at Sherman Pianos. Indeed, a certain aloofness has long characterized the shop and its relations with its neighbors. Well it might, for the Sherman inventory has, through depression, recession, suburban exodus, and downtown renaissance, turned over with a regularity that would doubtless astonish many who pass in front, perceive within one or two shadowy figures, and make the blithe assumption that the day of butcher paper over the Sherman window is near at hand. But appearances are deceptive; over the years those figures, representing the sales department, have been consistent in generating very respectable figures in the Sherman ledgers. On average, sales people have remained in the firm’s employ at least ten years, and two of the three currently on the payroll own their own homes. The regnant Sherman scion takes a pride in the company at least as great as that of his father and grandfather, and is happily at his desk (before that his father’s desk, and before that his grandfather’s) six days a week.

“A Piano for Every Purse,” boasted the firm in its early years, and the essence of that homely bromide has never gone out of date. Pride of place in the big front window is reserved for the latest model automatic piano which can render hundreds of popular songs and classical selections. One must not suppose that the computerized piano represents some radical innovation at Sherman’s, for its ancestors, employing paper rolls instead of microchips, were prominent in the window right from opening day in 1927. The Sherman automatic piano assumed full dimension in May of 1948, when a small loudspeaker was installed under the marquee and connected to a microphone placed beneath the featured model. When Mr. Sherman switched on the amplifier, he brought not merely the look but the sound of the piano to the passing parade of shoppers, secretaries, prostitutes, panhandlers, tourists, drug addicts, and businessmen. Free music, some might say. Perhaps; yet, a considerable number among those passers-by have, through the years, been enticed by that ostensibly gratuitous music to pause, smile thoughtfully, then enter the showroom—and buy. Thus, the free music policy has in fact been a handsomely paying one.

Shortly before noon most days (but never on Sunday), a little man with big ears and a leathery face approaches the Sherman window. The man is in his dapper seventies; he wears a checked sport coat, a wide, striped tie, sharply creased trousers, and a charcoal fedora with a small feather in the band. If the day is inclement, he adds a white topcoat. His small feet are encased in black, point-toed oxfords, impeccably shined. The man edges toward Sherman’s diffidently; a moderate stoop and the downturned corners of his mouth infer years of bending, though perhaps not without struggle, before the stiff winds of life. He approaches the window from the outer margin of the sidewalk, head cocked, as if passing the shop for the first time and just now aware of its existence. He gazes steadily at the window, not with innocent discovery, however, but with sly appraisal. The little man is sizing things up.

Like a boat nosing into its berth, he slips beneath the marquee at the south side of the window and turns to face the street. The noon hour is the big time; the energy of the street hits its peak, the sun shines its brightest, frivolity takes charge, and the late inmates of office and shop are hungry for nourishment and gaiety. The piano is in full swing with the good old songs: “On the Sunny Side of the Street,” “Me and My Shadow,” “Ain’t Misbehavin’”. The keys move purposefully up and down, sprightly melody and chiming chords flood the sidewalk, and many are moved, if not to enter the showroom, to at least linger a moment and think fondly of old Tin Pan Alley.

Gazing up and down the sidewalk with apparent nonchalance, the man chews a ball of wintergreen gum and gently rocks from side to side. He lowers himself slightly on one knee, then the other, flexing his joints. As he does so, he absorbs the mood of the street: are the girls showing more leg than usual? Are the businessmen relaxed or keyed-up? Is some special event—a convention, a holiday, a sale—heightening the foot traffic and the emotions of the pedestrians? The factors must be divined and evaluated, and after close observation over several months, he has come to the conclusion that even minor fluctuations in barometric pressure, temperature, cloud cover, or ambient light possess the power to radically alter the psychological climate of the sidewalk within moments. He’s seen it happen, many times.

Abruptly, the piano selection ends. As the last chord fades into silence, the man in the shadow straightens, squares his shoulders, and cocks his head slightly toward the window. Will the piano resume promptly, or has the program come to an end? If so, will the sales people neglect to restart the instrument? They do, sometimes, if occupied with other business. Before too long, however (at express instruction from Mr. Sherman, himself), the music continues. And when it does, the little man faces a decision. Sometimes, after hearing the first bars of the next number, his head returns to the vertical and he remains inert beneath the awning, his hat brim casting a black mask over his eyes. Other times, however, a factor intervenes: a brightening of the sun’s rays, the approach of a shapely pair of legs, or, most importantly, the launching of the automatic piano into a gay and familiar melody in cut-time. And when one or more of these factors (especially the last) are favorable, the little man puts his left foot forward, makes a slight bow, and begins to dance.

The step is a slide, a dip, a half-turn, and a skip, with a foxtrot box step as foundation. He moves tidily and compactly, sliding much, skipping little, and channeling the chords and the rhythm like alternating current, letting them flow precisely as the composers, in their cigar-fogged studios long ago, had intended. The man at Sherman Pianos dances, not for money (though every now and then someone tosses a coin or a crumpled-up bill at his feet), not for applause (though this he does not object to), not for recognition. No, he dances when the automatic piano swings into “You’re the Cream in My Coffee”; he dances when a pretty girl appears; he dances because the music is playing and must not go unappreciated. He dances for joy and for what has been left behind.

It was a sunny noontime when he walked down Fourth Avenue, lunch in mind. He was retired and no longer bound by routine, and his feet led him past Sherman’s. The light on the sidewalk was clean and sharp, the pedestrian traffic lively, and as he passed the store window the piano struck up “I’ll Build a Stairway to Paradise.”

He wanted to cry. When had he last heard that? And why had the piano played it then? His left foot fell forward, the right followed, but instead of continuing down the street, the feet hesitated and described a modest box step. Possessed by imps, the little feet did more box steps, the hands rose slowly into middle air, and the man felt himself detach from the sidewalk and float free. Gershwin— What genius! The piano segued into “My One and Only” and he followed. The astonishing progression of the tune clanged vibrantly into the noontime, shaking the years from long-neglected hips and impelling his ecstatic feet to hammer the syncopation into the pavement. Electric warmth flooded his body, and by the conclusion of the medley he felt decades younger. A woman smiled and clapped, he smiled back and bowed.

He eased into a corner, head spinning. What the hell am I doing, dancing on a public sidewalk? Am I losing my marbles? He was retired. He was seventy-two. Did he care? If he was losing his marbles, this wasn’t a bad way to do it. But could the heart stand it? He felt no pain, no fatigue. He glanced warily around. Who had seen him? What would the cops do? Tell him to move along—no doubt about that! He was on the point of moving along when, with an infectious rolling bass, the piano swung into “Sentimental Journey.” The little feet traced the melody on concrete, his spirit rose into the azure afternoon.

Hours later, in his narrow bed, hands folded primly across his chest, he still felt the electric charge in his bones. Dancing. In the goddamn street! Where did that come from? He stared at the ceiling and sighed. Harold.

In 1937 Seacoma was a grim, gray city in the grip of depression. His father had died of diphtheria, his mother struggled to keep food on the table, and his older cousin Harold was his best friend. Harold, grinning in his immaculate suits…in the Art Museum, explaining Japanese tapestry…at the wheel of his dove gray Ford coupe, the interior smelling of leather and cologne, chewing gum and pointing out illicit gambling houses and other dens of more obscure doings. “My two bits’-worth is to steer clear of these joints,” Harold cautioned in his reassuring baritone. “A lot of bad stuff happens in places like these, stuff you don’t want to get mixed up in.”

In his beautifully decorated apartment Harold spun records and gave his young cousin boxing lessons. “When you’re different from other people, like me, you have to be able to defend yourself. Defending yourself is important in this world. Otherwise, they’ll walk all over you.” Who “they” were, or what Harold had meant by “different,” he had no idea. He could only nod and smile. “You’ll get it when you’re a little older,” Harold told him. “Meantime, enjoy life. Find yourself a nice gal.” Harold never seemed to have a gal, himself, a fact that made his young cousin feel vaguely sad. “Oh, that Harold,” his mother would say, shaking her head.

It was Harold’s extensive record collection that introduced him to the wonders of Tchaikovsky, Debussy, and Ellington. “These are the sounds of Heaven,” Harold said one evening. “Keep them with you, and you’ll never be lonely.”

Then Harold sprang a fast one: “You know how to dance?”

“Uhhh…”

Harold chuckled slyly. “Man, if you want to get in good with the girls, you got to know how to dance.” He put on a record of a snappy Gershwin song and said, “Come on, I’ll show you the foxtrot.” Harold rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, took his other hand, and led them smoothly across the thin carpet—“One-two-three-four…Just let your body glide to the music, let your legs feel the beat, take it into your soul.” Harold tightened his grip, and through his cologne he picked up the faintest tinge of sweat. The older man’s face grew flushed, he got a strange feeling. But the music—the music felt good! Harold played the record twice more then released him. “Practice the box step on your own, learn to move easily, and the gals’ll be at your feet. Got it?” He got it. And he kept the Gershwin tune with him forever after, especially since the title offered hope in a dark time: “I’ll Built a Stairway to Paradise.”

One bright morning soon after he graduated high school, Harold took him downtown to the the big Friedrich and Nelskog store and introduced him to a friendly older man. The man asked him a few questions, held out his hand, and for the next forty-three years the F&N stockroom was his second home.

Funny, he thought, 44 years later, spending my life working in a basement. Nobody ever asked me if that was what I wanted to do, but I never questioned it. It was a good life.

But dancing in the street—this was something he never counted on. When had he last danced, anyway? He grunted: twenty-four years ago. With Irene. A nice gal at first, and she liked to dance as much as he did. But then she got pushy, started complaining and finding fault, like she wanted something more from him. Him, a stockroom clerk. A woman like that—he’d seen what one did to his father. More, more, more, always more. Who needed it? He let her go and hadn’t danced since. But he knew now that he would dance again, on the sidewalk, with that wonderful piano. He fell asleep smiling.

Next day he bought himself a pack of chewing gum for courage and was outside Sherman’s at the stroke of noon. The staff reacted with bemusement when they noticed the man dancing outside their window, and Mr. Sherman even considered asking him politely to move on. Businessman that he is, however, he quickly saw that the dancing man was an advertising bonus to be welcomed, even cultivated. The staff embraced the policy, as staffs must, and came to consider him a kind of lucky talisman. And in fact, more than one satisfied customer has admitted to being lured into the shop by the dancing man.

He was well into his first set one recent day when he noticed the woman. She stood in the recess at the north end of the show window, a wedge of shadow dividing her into light and dark halves. He looked directly at her for an instant, glanced away, then looked back. No doubt about it: she was watching him. He looked away, careful not to stare. Stare, and you run the risk of contact and small talk. Small talk can kill the day. The girl remained motionless. Had he seen her before? He couldn’t be sure; after a while, faces become an abstraction. This girl was no abstraction; her face was a pale oval framed by austere straight black hair and punctuated by dark eyes. Bright red lips made a bloody gash in the oval, mirrored by a dull red trench coat. Strands of stray fabric wafted gently below the hem of the coat. A little down on her luck, perhaps?

The song ended and the dancing man retreated to his alcove, catching his breath. Across the recess, dim eyes bored into him. A nut case? These days, you can’t tell. He directed his gaze away from her and out to the passing pedestrians and cars. And when the piano swung cheerfully into “Anything Goes” and he swung into his step, he turned and saw that she had gone. She was back the next day, however, and the day after that. The pattern was always the same: an hour or so after he began, she would appear, a sudden, silent presence in the tenebrous trapezoid. She did not speak, but he felt her eyes upon him. A few more numbers and she’d vanish, as if summoned by some inaudible signal.

The fourth day she arrived as usual. He saw her up the block walking toward him, smoothly, even languorously. She smiled at him sweetly as she came to a rest in her corner. This time, though, she did not vanish suddenly and silently. And this time, as he finished a number and came to rest in his corner, she spoke: “You got real style, mister.” The voice was cool and flute-like and so unexpected that at first he did not realize it was hers. She was smiling. He glanced toward the street, blinked his eyes, then cocked his head diffidently and said, “Well—I’m no Astaire.”

“On the contrary, you’re quite good.” The voice had a slight edge to it, like that actress—Veronica Lake! He hadn’t thought of her in years. He cleared his throat—he spoke so little, these days—and said, modestly, “It’s strictly for my own amusement, of course.”

She laughed, the red gash parting to reveal white teeth. “Well, I think you’re grand.” She brushed her hair back in a gesture that filled him with sudden longing.

Grand: an old-fashioned word. He peered at the pale oval focused so oddly upon him and asked, “Do you dance?”

She shook her head demurely. “No, not really.”

Working his gum, he squinted into her eyes. They were as dark as the wrong side of an eight ball. “Well,” he said, “one step or fifty, if it gives you pleasure, that’s the important thing. Dancing doesn’t have to be fancy to bring joy.”

She smiled and shifted legs. “Nice word, ‘joy’.”

He felt suddenly authoritative. “An important word! Without joy, what is there?” He studied the woman; she was not pretty, but oddly handsome. Like one of his old schoolteachers, maybe. Her figure was erect, in the teacher’s same vaguely chaste, yet vaguely alluring, way. She was a good six inches taller than he, but that had never bothered him, or his girls, before. He glanced discretely at her once more. Yes, not bad, not bad at all. If only he were about forty—hell, thirty!—years younger.

Again, the smile, warmer now. “Yeah, very true. Pity things get so—complicated.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “You got that right.” What were her complications?

With long, slim fingers she extracted a cigarette from her inside pocket, lit it easily, and blew an acrid cloud toward the traffic. “Anyway,” she said, “I’ve never had much occasion to dance. I guess I’m just more of a watcher than a doer.”

“That so?” The piano broke into “Dinah.” He cocked his head toward the music; whoever recorded these numbers was some tickler! He didn’t want to be rude, but the ivories were pulling. He smiled vaguely in the girl’s direction and leaned into the chorus. His small hands floated delicately upward, mirroring the movements of his anxious feet.

“Your hands move very gracefully,” came the flute-voice.

And your smile is fascinating. “That’s what I call a drifting pattern. Works right along with the feet, see? When you’re dancing, you want everything to knit together.”

 She nodded. “I see.”

He never minded an audience, but he hoped he wouldn’t get off his step trying to impress this young woman. Goddamn it, relax! He focused and stepped it up smartly through the out chorus, then as the selection ended sailed smoothly into his corner.

She grinned at him, clapping softly. “Bravo!” Her smile was more than fascinating, it was dazzling.

He bowed, but said nothing, keeping his ear on the piano. It fell silent for a moment then chimed into “Moon River” in a slow and florid waltz tempo. The dancing man, who has never cared for waltzes, shrugged and glared glumly into the street. Was this girl going to kill the day? Things did; the piano will get hung up on classics or ballads or waltzes, or stop and not get reset, or some damn thing or other will just be off: the weather, the light, the financial markets, the cycles of the moon. The same unknowable agency that packs the streets on Tuesday will sweep them clean on Wednesday. Once in a while a knee will go bum. And then there are the talkers: “How ya doin’ today?” “Lookin’ good today!” How the hell did they expect him to look?

“Moon River” segued into “The Days of Wine and Roses.”

 “Oh, I love this song,” the girl purred.

The dancing man nodded. “Yes, this Mancini knows his stuff. More of a ballad man, though.”

She blew a last smoke cloud into the air and dropped her cigarette to the ground, leaving her foot planted on the butt. “I love this kind of music. It’s so comforting.”

“Oh, sure—comforting, you bet.” He wrapped and pocketed the spent chewing gum and looked up the street. How long would his energy hold? Well, at least it’s not some dumb palooka chewing my ear. The old ones are the worst; they have time to kill, no one to talk to, and can eat up your whole afternoon if you let them. Occasionally, one of the old gang from work or the Paris will wander by and shoot the breeze for a moment, but they don’t linger. Perhaps they’re uncomfortable seeing him in his chosen pastime, but more likely they have their own problems. For a time, there was one particular pain, a big palooka who took the dancing man as a kindred spirit and freely vented his spleen: “What the hell do these kids know, hah? Kay Kaiser—Benny Goodman—that’s real music!”

“Sure, sure,” muttered the dancing man, resenting the entrapment and the assumption that he had anything in common with this bellyacher. The guy failed to show up one day and that was the end of it.

Now, here was this girl. She thrust a leg out and raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re here every day,” she said, “rain or shine. That’s dedication.”   

“Every day except Sunday.” How long had she been watching him? He looked at her closely but discerned little. Some women you could read like a comic book. Not this one. Her smile was good, though; there was sweetness there.

He smiled back. “Yes, I guess I’ve come to consider this little patch of sidewalk my own little floorshow.”

She laughed warmly, with no trace of derision. The teeth were straight and very white; she was evidently a person who took care of herself. “And what do you do on Sunday?” she asked.

Inquisitive, aren’t we? He didn’t mind; it felt good, this young woman asking about his life. “Well, Sunday I rest my dogs. These old dogs been good to me and I got to take care of ‘em.”

“Not many people are brave enough to do what you do. Get out there and express yourself spontaneously.”

He chuckled heartily. “You mean not many people are screwy enough!”

“I don’t think it’s screwy at all. I think it’s great.”

Hmm. The dancing man felt a strange tingling at the base of his spine. He looked at his feet then into her eyes. “Oh, now, I’m just an old stockroom clerk. Forty-three years at Friedrich and Nelskog, don’t know how great that is. Great is someone like Astaire, Kelly, Bert Williams. Do you know Bert Williams?”

“Yes! I saw him once—in an old movie.”

His hazel eyes lit up. “Now there was a real hoofer! Mom and Pop took me to see him when I was six years old, in nineteen-and-twenty-nine. At the old Orpheum—torn down, now. You want to talk about great: he made dancing look like such fun, completely effortless. Almost made me forget about baseball. Oh, there was a pack of ‘em in those days: Astaire and Rogers, Vernon and Irene Castle, the Nicholas Brothers—beautiful kids, hot as firecrackers. Cagney: Jimmy Cagney, you know—‘You dirty rat!’ He was one hell of a hoofer. Ace buck and wing man.”

The piano slipped into “Dear Heart.” Cripes, three snoozers in a row. He didn’t mind passing the time with this young lady, but too much standing around and the joints go stiff. He hoped the piano would snap it up soon.

She slanted onto the other leg. “Would you call yourself a buck and wing man?”

He glanced down with modest pride, and his eyes rested an instant on her spotless cream-colored, open-toed pumps. “You might say that. I have my own personal step, kind of a little impromptu. Your step is your trademark, see? No two people are gonna dance the same. My step I picked up from my cousin Harold. Oh, I got plenty of inspiration from the big boys, but Harold, he was the one taught me the steps. He was a real artist—I’m a slouch compared to Harold.” The dancing man shook his head. “Don’t know what he’d say if he could see me now.”

It’s a lonesome town, all right.

“So, what is buck and wing, exactly?”

Now what, she wants a dancing lesson? The little man eyed the piano, willing it to get excited. “Well, in buck and wing, the skip is the thing. That’s what gets ‘em, that little skip in there. Only, you don’t want to overdo it. You want subtlety in your step, see, not a lot of clown stuff. Make it so the ladies can picture dancing with you. And never forget the melody; express the sentiment of the song, always.”

 “What are your favorite songs?” She smiled conspiratorially, making him shiver again.

 “Anything by Gershwin. He’s the topper in my book.” He cleared his throat and crooned in a reedy voice, “I’ll build a stairway to paradise…Do you know that one? That’s my song, has been for years. But I’ll tell you, all his numbers just make you want to get up on your dogs.”

She laughed sweetly and leaned toward him. He felt strength and authority flood through him. “I go for Berlin and Porter, too. They really knew how to write a song. This Bacharach is good, he writes a very catchy tune. I like something with a little pep to it, see? Ballads are okay for listening, but you can’t step to ‘em. Sometimes this piano will get off onto the classicals, and them I’m sunk. You know, Leibestraum and all that stuff. Not that I’m against the classics—it’s great music. But to a dance man they’re slow death.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. “‘Slow death’—an interesting expression.”

“Didn’t mean to be morbid.”

She shook her head gently. “Of course not. No one does.”

What did she mean? “Not me,” he said. “No time for that sort of thing. Death comes when it comes. I’m not afraid of it. What I think about is life. Love life, that’s my philosophy. That and joy. Dance, sing, play an instrument, paint—do what brings you joy. Joy, always!” He smiled up at her, his mouth a small crescent filled with small white teeth.

The girl nodded. “Seems to me dancing is the perfect expression of life.”

“That’s it! Sister, you nailed it right on the noggin.”

The Mancini ballad faded into the ether. A chord rang, then the clarion melody of “On the Sunny Side of the Street.”

“Well, here we go.” He nodded briskly at the girl and stepped once more into the music. Leave your worries at your doorstep. This was more like it! The sun felt good, the afternoon crowd bustled, and here stood a young woman, smiling at him. Gold dust at my feet. Left, right, back, around, dip, slide. And again. Life can be so sweet. The sun grew warmer. Hot.

Perhaps he had rested too long. Perhaps the distraction had been too much. But after two choruses, he felt like his feet had been cut off. His head swam. He stopped abruptly and slumped toward his corner.

A hand touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

What the hell? The world trembled, steadied. “Oh sure…fine…just a little winded, I guess.” His chest ached, his feet—where were his feet? The glare off the sidewalk was blinding. Far away, a piano tinkled. Goddammit. “Well,” he croaked, “guess maybe I’m done for the day.”

The girl leaned in close, hand still on his shoulder. It felt warm. “Why don’t you come back with me to my place? You can put up your dogs and relax.” Her voice was a gentle whisper, like his mother’s when she tucked him in. A siesta sounded good. But on a strange young woman’s sofa? “Oh, I’m all right,” he said, his voice a wisp. His head spun, his pupils drifted upward.

 “You are, huh?” Her mouth curled wryly. “You’re coming home with me. Can you walk?”

The music sounded closer, its old self, bright and happy, playing for him to step back in. He hated leaving the piano, but surrendered. “Sure.” He wasn’t sure at all. “Sure I can.” Just direct your feet.

She slipped a slender arm through his and they made their way slowly down the street. He thought of a picture he had seen long ago of a grand old sailing ship being towed to the boneyard by a little tugboat. The breeze blew fresh down the avenue, and he felt himself revive, happy to let the young woman guide him gently along. What if one of the old gang saw him now? Cripes, you never know, when you wake up in the morning!

She turned a corner, then another, and opened the door to a cool, dim lobby. Yellow electric candles burned on either side of an old-fashioned elevator gate. She slid the gate back and they entered the little car. The gate clanged shut, the lift whirred and jerked upward. The dancing man felt to see if his tie was straight, and glanced down at his shoes. “Boy,” he muttered, “I guess I was winded. That’s never happened before.”

“First time for everything,” she said, still holding firmly to him. “Didn’t you have your Wheaties this morning?”

Her height and proximity startled him, as did the faint stirrings of an erection. “Oh sure…I eat a good breakfast.” The elevator clacked slowly upward, gray floors alternating with more dim foyers and yellow candles. It seemed to go on forever. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was lying on his back. His fingers felt plush. A sofa. His forehead was cool. He reached up and felt a damp towel.

His voice was a feeble whisper. “How did I get here? Did you…?”

The girl stood over him, smiling. “You did need a rest. I’m making us some tea.”

He breathed heavily. “Hell—getting old.”

“Don’t be silly, anyone can get winded.” She moved silently to the kitchen.

“Sure…That’s right. Where’s my hat?”

“On the chair by the door,” she called.

“Thank you.” He closed his eyes. The homely clattering of the woman in the kitchen made him want to sleep. Stay. Where was she forty years ago? The apartment was dark and cool and fragrant with some strange aroma. Man, time is some joker. He nodded off, feeling light and oddly secure.

He opened his eyes to see her sitting quietly in the chair beside him, two teacups and a pot on a table between them. She had removed her coat, revealing a green sleeveless dress of an old style. The hem was fraying, but the dress was spotless.

“I didn’t mean to put you out.” His voice came out stronger; he felt himself coming back, and sighed luxuriously. No, not my time yet.

Her long fingers idly played with the folds of her dress. ““It’s no trouble at all. It’s not often I have a visitor.”

The dancing man squinted at her. “Nice gal like you? I would have thought otherwise.”

“I keep to myself,” she said briskly. “It’s simpler that way.” She poured tea into the cups and moved one of them toward him.

“Well, yes—simpler, maybe. Don’t know about better.” Pushing with his arms, he forced himself upright, reached slowly for his cup, and took a sip. “Ahhh…well, that’s nice. Tea, is it?

“Mmm, mint.” She regarded him with lidded eyes.

He felt a burst of energy course through him. “I never was much of a tea-drinker—more of a coffee man. But this is all right. Do you make it yourself?”

“Oh, no, just ordinary mint tea, right out of the box.”

“Ordinary or not,” he said happily, “I think you might be on to something.”

She laughed daintily and took a small sip. Pursing her lips coquettishly, she asked, “So, what made you decide to be a sidewalk dancer?”

A white Venetian blind covered the wide front window, letting in subdued light and a hint of a brick building across the street. The dancing man thought of the piano, playing to an empty patch of sidewalk. His sidewalk. “Sidewalk dancer—guess that’s what I am, huh?” He shook his head, chuckling. “Heck of an occupation, eh? Forty-three years stockroom clerk, then: sidewalk dancer! Well, I never really decided to be one. I just happened by that piano one day and the thing got me, simple as that. Oh, it got me: got me good!”

They both laughed, husky and full. It felt good, laughing.

He gazed around at the small living room and saw more candle lights, a brocaded lampshade, a dusky landscape painting, a sparsely-filled bookcase, his hat sitting by the door. A Kewpie Doll. There was something oddly familiar about the place. Harold’s apartment! Yes, those same candle wall lamps, the brocaded shade, the tidiness of it, like a jewel box, and even the spicy smell. Incense, it must be; Harold used incense, too. Oh, how he fussed over that place of his: the furniture, the phonograph records, the little collection of porcelain figures. Dear Harold.

“Out there on the street,” she said, “do people ever laugh at you? Make fun?”

“Oh, sure, you get the jokers—‘Hey, Bojangles!’ That sort of thing.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “No doubt some figure I’m off my nut—and maybe I am, too! Some people get the idea I’m some kind of panhandler and throw coins at my feet. I thought about putting out my hat for them to throw money in, to supplement my income. But hell—excuse my language—I don’t need any chump change. I’m no beggar. I get by fine on my pension. Dancing’s good enough for me. Most people don’t pay me any mind at all, just keep walking.”

“Yes,” she said, “isn’t it funny how we keep our distance? The things we just screen out…”

“Oh, well, most folks are in a hurry to get somewhere. They got their own problems. Why should they bother with some old screwball hoofing on the sidewalk?”

He sat back, feeling the life flow back into his legs, then took another sip. He looked again at her shoes, so light and perfectly shaped, and imagined the feet inside. She says she doesn’t dance, but… He blew out a long, easy breath and continued, “Once in a while, a kid or two will stop and watch. They stand there with their smart-aleck grins, you know, like kids do, and you can see they’re thinking, ‘Oh, look at that funny old man.’ I mean, we’re all smart alecks at that age, right? But you know, some of ‘em keep on watching—watching close. You can feel their eyes on you. The music’s playing and their faces get serious, and you can see damn well that they’re startin’ to appreciate it. I think it’s the music gets ‘em: those great songs. They’ll get most anybody with a heart. I think most people have a heart, don’t you?”

“Sure, why not?” Veronica Lake, again.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re right. But I’ve seen enough of the rotten side.”

You’ve seen enough? “Oh, come, a young gal like you?”

She smiled wryly and wriggled her toes. “Oh, we gals see plenty.”

She had a point. It wasn’t easy being a woman; that much, he knew. “I guess my ignorance is showing. I’ve spent most of my life around fellas, see. Haven’t known many women—not that I didn’t want to. But that’s the luck of the draw.”

“And some woman’s,” she said. Her dark eyes bored into his, her smile gave way to something else, something stronger.

He felt his face flush. Why now, Lord? Why not forty-three goddamn years ago? This apartment, a Saturday night, the radio playing, wine, roses. He felt like crying.

As if sensing his emotions, she paused to take another sip, and when her face emerged from behind the cup it was noticeably softer. “What do you do when you’re not dancing?”

“When I’m not dancing…” He snorted softly. “Well, when I’m not dancing I guess I’m dying. Ah—I don’t mean that. I like an afternoon walk—get out, get some air, watch the people, look things over, see what’s changed in the last twenty-four hours. Something’s always changing, some old place you think will be around forever is gone.”

Her eyes flashed. “Yes, I know. I like the old things, too.”

He looked at her intently. What made a young person like old things? He never could figure that out. He shrugged. “Oh, sure, old things are swell. But you can’t get too stuck on ‘em. Old things are yesterday. They don’t last. One day, they’re gone. You’re better off lookin’ ahead, see? Not back.”

She said nothing. Suddenly anxious, he swung his feet to the floor. “I should be getting along. I’ve taken too much of your time as it is. Thank you very much—I don’t even know your name…” He put weight on his feet, but blinding white specks danced in his eyes and he fell back on the sofa. “Dammit! Whew…Sorry—I guess you’re stuck with me a little longer. I hope you don’t mind.”

She smiled warmly. “Not at all, I’m glad to have you here. Don’t you even think about leaving.” He liked the mock bossy tone, so reminiscent of his mother, and yet so different.

She leaned toward him, put her hand on his, and said, “So you actually saw Bert Williams. I envy you.”

A woman’s hand on mine. The little man struggled for words. “No, no…You shouldn’t envy me—an old man, it isn’t healthy.” Old man. He’d never said it aloud before. It didn’t hurt as much as he figured.

Her flickering eyes and the hand, still warm and soft on his, swept the thought from his mind. “Not the way I think of it,” she exclaimed. “What you have isn’t age, it’s life. You’re full of life. I mean, look at you: you get up, walk, look around at the world, take it all in—and dance, to boot.”

The way she said it—the fact that she said it—sent an expansive shiver through him. He looked her in the eye once more and said in a clear, strong voice, “Well now, that’s a different slant, I must say. ‘Full of life,’ eh?” He shook his head, smiling wryly. “Yes, I’ve seen some stuff, all right. I always liked to see the sights in town, back to when I was a kid. I used to come into town by myself, on the streetcar—car fare was a nickel and the folks didn’t object to me running around by myself. Just a little shaver! In fact, my pop, he seemed to expect it, me gettin’ out in the world and on my own two feet. I’d have a hamburger for a nickel, see a movie for a dime, and catch the car home. Oh, boy, the city was something in those days: people hurrying everywhere, streetcars clanging, cars beepin’ their klaxons—ahh–OOH-gah!”

She laughed gaily. “Oh, yes, I remember—”

He looked closely at her. “Remember? What do you remember?”

“Oh—my mother…she’d talk about when she was a girl and all…” Her eyes flicked to the window for an instant, then focused back on his. “So,” she said, brightly, “do you have friends or family here?”

Okay, sister, I’ll play. “No family left, the folks are long gone. I was an only child. I used to keep in touch with one or two of the gang from work, but not anymore. Things start slipping away from you, you know. Hell of a deal, getting old.”

“Where’s ‘home’?” Full of questions, this one. She still hadn’t told him her name. He sipped his tea, nodding his head slightly in time to some vague inner tune. He let a moment pass then answered, “I live at the Calhoun. Over on Second. It’s just an old crumb joint, but clean.”

He let his eyes wander, nodding. “You have a very nice home here. Have you been here long?”

She smiled enigmatically. “Oh, not too long.”

“My cousin Harold lived in a place like this. Very similar. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say I was right back there now.”

“You miss him.”

“You bet I do. Harold, he was a prince of a man, let me tell you, tall and handsome, well-mannered, always. He took me under his wing when I was just a dumb little kid, see. He had a wonderful record collection—that’s where I got acquainted with the great songs, where I first heard ‘I’ll Build a Stairway to Paradise’—my song: right there in Harold’s apartment, 1214 Eighth Avenue, number 204. The highway runs through there now. We only lived a few blocks apart, see, and somehow, we took a shine to each other. I’d drop by his place on a Saturday night and he’d play records, one after the other. All the good stuff, Gershwin, Berlin, Paul Whiteman…After I saw Bert Williams and got the dancing bug, it was Harold taught me the basics, the box step and so forth.” He chuckled warmly: “Heh-heh, Harold led and I followed, and pretty soon I was a pretty fair stepper.

“Now, some people might get the wrong idea: you know, two fellas dancing together. But hell, I was just his kid cousin, and he was strictly on the level. He was gettin’ me ready for the ladies, see? Taught me boxing, a little ju-jitsu. Self-protection. Harold was very handy with his dukes, and I was just this runt kid. I don’t know if he felt sorry for me or just what, but he seemed to enjoy having me around. At least, I hope he did.”

“What happened to him?” the woman asked.

He scowled. “The war. That goddamn Hitler. Never came back. Like too many of our good young men.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So was I,” he muttered, shaking his head, “so was I. War is a sin, a sin against God. That’s what war is. Why do we do it, for Christ’s sake? Oh, I know we had to stop that lunatic. Still…”

He didn’t want to get wound up, not here. The girl leaned in, again, and knitted her eyebrows. “Excuse me. I get carried away when I think about Harold and all the other guys. A terrible waste.”

She leaned back in her chair, a curious look on her face. “Yes…”

He shrugged. “Ah, what can you do? Mankind—or, rather, man-unkind! That’s an expression I heard once. ‘Man-unkind’: clever, eh?”

She smiled tightly. “I sometimes wonder why—oh, well, I won’t get into that. So, were you in the war, too?”

“No, they didn’t want me: underweight. Got to be a punk stockroom boy instead—forty-three years at Friedrich and Nelskog! Harold put the word in for me; he was an upstairs man, worked the floor in the men’s department, sold suits, hats, everything. Oh, he was an ace salesman, like everything else he applied himself to! Thanks to him, I was set for life. That’s how it was at F and N: if you were a good employee, you had your job as long as you wanted it. Back then you could work somewhere your whole life.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Work in the same place your whole life? It sounds—stifling.”

“Well, some days were better than others. But that’s true whatever you do, isn’t it? I never found it stifling. Not that my job was anything great, but I was a darn good stockroom man, I will say. Friedrich and Nelskog got their money’s worth out of me, forty-three years’ worth! But I couldn’t do any less. It would have reflected badly on Harold if I was to slack off, see? But it was a good job, a darn good job, and a good crew. That store was the best in town. It was all about class; the customers were classy and the staff were classy. You worked at F&N, people looked at you with respect, even us downstairs guys. We even had uniforms: green shirt and pants, with our name embroidered on the front. Embroidered! They sure in hell don’t do that anymore. I miss it, I have to say.”

She leaned back in her chair and stretched her long legs and wiggled her feet inside their soft cream pumps. He saw that the shoes were spotless not just on the uppers but on the soles. She looked at him with lidded eyes and said in a faraway voice, “Wouldn’t it be lovely to go back in time? Back when your songs were brand-new—see Gershwin in person…Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers…”

 Back in time? He thought of Harold, the things he’d never said to him. His old man, so beaten down. But go back? Forget it. Apart from being impossible, there were no good old days. In fact, in many ways, the days of his youth had been shit. The kids were just as snot-nosed and arrogant then, people were out of work everywhere, and the cops would run you in just for looking cross-eyed. Then came that bastard, Hitler. No, “nostalgia” was a crock. How could he say this delicately?

His legs felt stronger now, and so did everything else. He set his cup down and shook his head, smiling. “No sense even thinking about the impossible, dear. We’re stuck in the time we got. It’s not normal to want to live in some other time, especially a young person like you.”

A shadow flitted across her face, even as the sun brightened in the slatted window, throwing a milky light across the room. “Normal things bore me,” she said, softly.

He felt a pang of disappointment at her fatalism. What could you say to that? “Most of life is ‘normal,’ I’m afraid,” he said. He didn‘t want to lecture, but she seemed to be asking for something. A way out, maybe? “We’re put here to make the best of the life God gave us. That, I firmly believe.”

“You’re very adamant,” she said. “But how did you deal with having to be normal every day?” Yes: she was asking for help. He was sure of it.

 Watch your step, buster, he thought. “Well, dear, I dealt with it be getting up every day and living. Each day is an adventure, see? Sure, some days, you hate to get out of bed. But you get out and make the best of it. That doesn’t mean you take any guff, like a rude boss or getting stiffed on overtime. Never let ‘em take advantage. I know you gals take a lot of guff from us fellas, too. My advice is, don’t let anybody walk over you. Now, I get the feeling you already know that. I only know I was fortunate to have a good job in a good shop and to work with a good crew. We joked and kidded on the line, you know, and it helped pass the time. Sometimes we’d go out after work, too. You might call it ‘normal’, but they were good times.”

“But they ended.”

“Yes, they ended. Everything ends.”

“How do you deal with things ending?”

“Ending? I don’t know.” Again, he chuckled at the thought of death. “I haven’t gotten there yet.” Since when was he a fount of wisdom? The idea amused him, but also made him feel good. “It’s funny, but me, I never saw the end of my career, such as it was, as any kind of ‘end.’ Life goes on. I didn’t give up just because I was retired—what kind of sense does that make? Life is a gift! I went out as usual and the after I retired, I found that piano. The very next day. Just one street over from my usual route to work—I never knew it existed, before that! You might say I got lucky, but I think that piano was waiting for me. You just never know. I only know that each day is an adventure.”

In a fluid motion she stood and moved to a small phonograph, and slipped a record on. A soft piano played “Someone to Watch over Me.” She smiled at him and murmured, “You might call this my song.”

 “Oh, that’s a good one,” he nodded. “A genius, George was. Of course, we mustn’t forget Ira. He was half the songs! Lyrics like that—that’s poetry, sheer poetry.” He looked off toward the window and shook his head. “George, he died so young. Some damn brain aneurysm, just like that. Goes to show, you just never know…”

“Yeah, ain’t it the truth. I—”

“You what, dear?”

“Oh, I just think it’s sad…” She pursed her lips and asked, “How’s your tea?”

 “Wonderful. I feel younger already.” His eyes glinted. “So, my curious friend, enough of me. Tell me about yourself. You say you’re a ‘watcher’—people, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“All day?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to work?”

“No.” She recited her responses with a coolly detached expression. Independent means, he thought; that would explain the nice apartment, the free time, the barely-suppressed aimlessness. Her voice hinted at an emptiness, a craving for direction and purpose.

He pursed his lips. “Lucky deal, not to have to work. I don’t know, though—I wouldn’t want to just drift through life without working. A person needs a purpose. You meet some good folks working—granted, you meet some bums, too!” They both laughed, and he felt his confidence rise again. Maybe he was something of a savior, himself—at least when he kept things on the sunny side. “Seriously, my friend, in my 43 years at the salt mine, I found that working keeps you level. Doing any job keeps you going. I couldn’t handle not working; I needed that routine, not to mention the dough.”

“I’m sure you’re right about that,” she said. “A job would be nice—but meeting new people is nicer. People like you.”

His spine tingled, his whole body. Watch it—watch it!  “Well, thanks very much for saying so. I think you’re a very kind, sweet, intelligent girl with a lot to offer. I can see it in this charming apartment.” He dared to ask: “No fellow in your life?”

She shook her head. “No. I like being by myself. Some people are just better off alone, I guess. Besides, somebody has to watch everybody else.”

“An interesting philosophy.” He hesitated a moment then said, “You’ve been watching me for some time.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not at all. I just wonder why.”

She frowned, her eyes darting away. “I—I can’t…”

He bore in, sensing something lurking near the surface. Did he really want to know? Yes. “Why can’t you? Are you afraid of something?”

“Like what?”

“Like maybe getting too involved with life—with other people. Maybe you’re not just a watcher or a looker or whatever you want to call yourself.” He narrowed his eyes: “Maybe you’re not as young as you seem. I got eyes too, you know, they aren’t so damn old as all that.”

Again, she smiled that enigmatic smile. “How about you? Are you as old as you think you are?”

“Sure I am. How the hell old should I be?”

“I’m not sure. It just seems to me that, with your passion for music and dancing—and life—you’re a young man inside.”

He laughed heartily. “Hoo, boy! Well, for a hot minute you certainly make me feel younger! I guess maybe you really are a watcher. You can see inside people. Maybe a woman like yourself knows things a man doesn’t. Has instincts. Unfortunately, my passion, as you call it, still doesn’t make me any younger in years.”

“So,” she said, eyes studying him, “do you have a philosophy of life?”

Another curveball. But he was enjoying the twists and turns of real conversation. How long had it been since he’d had one? Years. Goddammit. “Don’t know as I’d say that,” he replied. “I’m not much of a philosopher. But I do believe one thing: that music has great powers, powers to make life better, even to make human beings better. That’s why we’ve made music all these thousands of years: for its saving power. I think it very likely that, without music, man-unkind would have destroyed itself long ago.” He jerked his thumb toward the window. “Look, that piano saved my life. In my opinion, retirement is the number one killer. What the hell was I gonna do in retirement—shuffle around the streets like a bum? Sit on my duff in the lobby? Shit—pardon the expression—but no thanks. Without that piano, I probably would not be here talking to you now. I’d be six feet under.”

She made a noise of protest, but he was insistent. “No, it’s the truth! And that’s as it should be. Nature doesn’t waste time on the old—the world belongs to the young, the fertile, the next generation. But I do have one place left: that little patch of sidewalk in front of that piano. Isn’t that something? That little patch of sidewalk! I guess I realized it as soon as it happened. The snot-kids and everybody else has their place. But, that patch of sidewalk in front of that piano, with that music: goddammit, that’s mine!”

“I knew it.” She crossed her long legs and cocked her head.

“What did you know?”

“That you’re out there dancing for a reason. I think you’re dancing to show people. Show them what they’re missing in life. Remind them of another part of existence: the primal, the spontaneous, the natural.” Her eyes gleamed. “Stop me if I’m prying, but did you ever have someone. A girl? A wife?”

The light through the window flared briefly then waned. Watching, the dancing man felt oddly detached from time. A wife: the very notion seemed impossible—unreal. How close had he come? “Oh, I had a girl or two in my day,” he said, “but they didn’t pan out. Well, so what? Nothing’s guaranteed. I had a little fun, I had a good job and good company there in the stockroom with the guys. I had the gang at the Paris. A wife—no. Marriage is nice, if you get along, but my mother, she was tough on my dad, see? He was a softie and she rode him all the time, do this, do that. I think maybe that soured me on married life.”

“A lonely life.”

He shrugged. “I like to say ‘alone’, not ‘lonely’. Oh, I might have liked a cat or a dog—but what are they supposed to do when you’re out at work all day long? It isn’t fair, cooping ‘em up by themselves. So, life is life. I’m not complainin’ about mine, not one bit.”

“Maybe you’re just waiting for the right partner.”

“Ahhh,” he said, waving his hand, “my kind of dance is really a one-man number.”

“I think it would be nice if we could dance together.”

Oh, Lord. “Well, that’s a nice thought, my dear, but I am quite a bit older than you, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“How old do you think I am?”

“I would say about thirty.”

“Flatterer! Okay, I’ll be thirty.”

He felt a flash of irritation. This talking in circles was making him tired. Was she hopped up, on drugs? So many were on the drugs, now. No, probably not. She didn’t seem at all strung-out or dopey. There was something a little off about this one, but probably due to her self-imposed isolation from society. And time was getting on. “Look, miss, I don’t know how old you are, and I don’t care. You like my dancing, and I’m glad. That’s what I do at this stage in life. In other stages, I did other things. I’m a simple man.”

“Not so simple as all that, I think.”

He flushed hotly. “Goddammit, who are you? You talk about ‘old things’ as if you knew all about ’em! And why the hell didn’t I know you forty-three years ago?” Shocked at his vehemence, he held up his hands. “Ah, cripes, I’m sorry. Ain’t it the shits? I mean, here I am, in this apartment, belonging to a lovely young lady, the first woman who’s ever shown a serious…”

She took his hand and looked into his eyes. “And I’m sorry if I was being presumptuous. I really do think you’re quite a special guy.”

He was almost hard. Jesus. He smiled sadly. “Look, sister, some things you just have to accept. I’m past my time, that’s all. I guess this dancing bit has thrown me off my track.”

“What track is that?”

“The one-way track. Hell, how much time do I have left, after all?”

She laughed huskily. “I’d say plenty.”

He wanted her, badly. No, no. “Shit, how does anyone know? I only know what I feel right now: old and beat. Though I admit, you have perked me up for a few pleasant moments.”

“Don’t say that, please! Why, you’ll be on your dogs in a few minutes and back at the piano.”

He felt his head buzz. Where was this going? “Maybe, maybe not. Look, let’s not kid ourselves. I’ve enjoyed the conversation and the hospitality. It’s a welcome change! But I know that you’re a young woman and I’m an old man with no business being here. And I also know that my last dance might not be far off.”

“I don’t think so.” She shook her head, and a curious smile flashed across her face. She took his hand and gently squeezed it.

He studied her for a minute. Then he spoke, softly, his voice coming from far away. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but are you by any chance death?”

She let his hand slip from hers and looked down.  

Cripes. “It’s a simple question.”

She looked into his face with a soft expression. “I’m sorry…I guess I’ve given you—well, a wrong impression. No, I am not death. I’m just like I say: a watcher.”

“Okay. So, you’re a watcher. And you’ve been watching me. Which means—what?”

The late-afternoon light flared up, her face reflecting it in a soft, warm glow. “I can’t say…It all depends on chance. It’s not set out ahead of time…”

It. But hadn’t she just said—? And anyway, death was something else, wasn’t it?

She looked at him, saying nothing.

Well. Traffic swished, a plane rushed overhead, and a few blocks away the piano would be winding down for the night. “Okay,” he nodded. “How about I call you ‘life’? After all, you very possibly saved mine today.”

A shadow fell across the room and over her face. She smiled gently. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

“No—thank you. So, I guess I should take care of myself, eh? Eat right, get plenty of rest. Cut back on the hoofing, too.”

“No—definitely no! Dancing is good.”

“You say that with great assurance.”

“Dancing has kept you young.”

The dancing man stood.

“You’re leaving,” she said.

“Yes. It’s time.” He stepped easily to the door and picked up his hat. Tomorrow, he would be back at his stand and dancing for George and Harold and the gang at the Paris, and for this odd young woman who had stepped in out of nowhere to spend a little time with him. Any ulterior motivations irrelevant.

He smoothed his jacket and smiled at her. He still didn’t know her name, and he didn’t really care to. “I’ve enjoyed our visit, dear,” he said. “Thank you. Thank you for keeping me company, for the tea, for the talk. I don’t know when I last enjoyed myself so much. I don’t know where you come from or what makes you tick, but I do know this: You’ve got a heart of gold. God bless you.”

She stood and walked to him. “It’s been wonderful meeting you,” she said softly. “I have enjoyed your company very much.” As he opened the door, she kissed him lightly on the cheek.

He turned to face her. “Will you be watching over me—Miss Someone?”

“Yes, my dear dancing friend, I will. Not all the time, but every now and then.”

He nodded briskly. “Well, all right. I guess it’s just as well I met you now and not sooner.” He chuckled and moved toward the elevator.

She laughed sweetly. “I’ll be seeing you!”

He threw her a jaunty wave and pressed the elevator button. As the door slid open, she smiled and disappeared into her apartment.

Everything was at an odd angle. He was lying on something hard. Shadowy figures loomed over him. “Sir,” someone said. “Sir, are you all right?”

Shit. Must have passed out. He blinked his eyes and slowly sat up.

“Easy, sir, slow and easy.” A man crouched beside him, a woman stood to the side. Both wore official-looking yellow vests.

He grimaced and took deep breaths. “Guess I passed out.”

“We’d like to check you out, if you don’t mind,” said the crouching paramedic.

“No, no. No need. I’ll be fine…” He felt his legs coming back, his vision clearing. He got to his feet and brushed himself off, smiling sheepishly at the young men. “There, that’s better. Whew! Boy, they sure sneak up on you, don’t they?” Where was the girl?

“Sure you wouldn’t like us to look at you?” asked the woman.

“Positive,” he answered, “but thanks. Sorry to put you out. I’ll take it from here.”

The medics walked to their van and the small crowd dissolved into the afternoon, leaving only the sidewalk, paved with golden light.

He is still there, dancing for the noontime crowds. He thinks often of the girl and hopes she will drop by again sometime. If she does not—well, no matter; dancing and music remain, the things that make every day a good day. When the sun is strong and the air is brisk and the mood of the street is gay, he sees in the window a young man, his chin sharp, his hands floating, his feet rising into the air.