The light was peeking through the clouds in a large ray that blinded Wallis Juster. He could not tell who was talking to him. The alleyway was consumed in darkness. The sunset was yellow and dry, falling rapidly on the far side of the street. 

“Who are you?” a voice said, more direct and serious.

“What’s it matter to you?” asked Wallis Juster. His voice was riddled with anxiety.

The homeless man moved his head closer, revealing his face. “I can ask a question, can’t I? I have a right to.”

The tramp was leaning up against the side of an aluminum trash can that reflected the sunset. Broken glass was scattered all about. Old beer bottles sat laying lonely. They had served their purpose.

The face of the strange man was greasy with many wrinkles. Old and tattered, scarred from memories long forgotten. The glints of sunlight tinted his eyes dark yellow, almost resembling a reptile’s. Snake-like, he licked the sweat from his lips.

“I guess you can. Don’t bother me none,” replied Wallis Juster in a slightly more calm manner.

The noise of cars passing by and the tapping of shoes from people walking filled their conversation.

Wallis Juster glanced at his watch. The bum was taking too much of his time. With haste in his mind, he reached into his left pocket, fumbling around for change to give the man. The encounter with the bum made him uneasy. He wished to move on as quickly as he could. There were so many bums on the street these days, it was difficult to avoid them altogether.

“Go buy some food with it. No drugs or alcohol,” he said, handing the coins over to the unsettling shadow that sat in the alleyway.

“No promises,” said the man in a raspy voice.

Wallis Juster walked on by, wondering why the encounter had even happened in the first place. He had always been a little uncomfortable around the homeless. He wondered why he felt the way he did. A sense of dread without reason. Maybe it was the unpredictability, he thought. There is a creepiness one can hold in the heart when a certain individual is crawling around the streets like a lost rat, begging for anything it can get its hands on. He could find no explanation. A part of him felt guilty thinking this way, but he did, and it seemed that he couldn’t do anything about it.

Cloud cover began to consume the now darkened blue sky. Skyscrapers towered over the streets, reflecting the setting sun in multiple directions. Long streaks of light glimmered through the windows, making it difficult to see without sunglasses. The trees danced as a light breeze gently pushed them. The dirt built up on the red bricks of the buildings became visible. You probably could take a knife and scrape a decent chunk off if you tried. The city had looked the same for years. Not too much change. Though Wallis Juster preferred the countryside, he tolerated the city.

He stopped himself at the end of the sidewalk on Fourth Street, waiting for the traffic to clear. He adjusted his shoulders, straightening his back and adjusting his posture. He was only thirty-five years old, and the pain of sitting at a desk every day for seventeen years had finally caught up to him. The feeling of sharpness pierced his spine while he attempted to walk across the street upright. It was a long walk to his office. A walk that he despised, especially at this time of day. He was already late to a task he should have already completed. Despite his pain, he disciplined himself to walk faster.

He passed a few blocks. At the near end of Sixth Street, tucked away in a narrow space between two abandoned buildings, was a small newspaper stand. The shadow of the building cast its gaze onto the sidewalk. It made the little stand difficult to spot. He barely saw it out of the corner of his eye. He attempted not to delay himself any longer. The temptation of looking at a few of the magazines was ever present. With a sigh, he disobeyed himself and walked toward the stand. As he avoided passersby, Wallis Juster was greeted by the man running the small magazine shop. A cold “Hello” was given.

Wallis Juster ignored the man completely, focusing his gaze on which magazine he should pick. The magazine stand was narrow. Its metal frame clung to the Manhattan sidewalk. It was worn, tattered from many years of weather and service. The glossy covers of the magazines reflected the sun. Its glare was intense. There were stacks upon stacks of different issues from politics to Playboy. On the counter, in small boxes, lay a different selection of candy bars. Some of the wrappers were faded, and a few had already been torn open.

The rhythm of the city was unbroken. The continuous honking and yelling did not disturb Wallis Juster from choosing. The man running the stand sat back in his chair, unfazed by Wallis Juster’s rudeness. He wore an old, faded Yankees cap. The wiry man leaned back and continued to read the Daily News.

Still questioning which one to purchase, Wallis Juster shifted his gaze down the street. He saw an open window with a clean, black curtain blowing outside the building. A car drove around the corner with too much speed, almost hitting someone. The driver and the pedestrian started to argue loudly. He saw a mother pushing her baby in a stroller. The gentle breeze in the air blew the woman’s golden-brown hair in the wind. Her hands tightly gripped the handle of the stroller. Modern and sleek, the stroller seemed to be newly purchased. Almost motionless, the wheels glided down the pavement. Unhurried by the rush of the city, she adjusted her hair with her hand, pulling it back out of her face. Still staring like a perplexed fool, Wallis Juster glared in her direction, forgetting his objective of buying a magazine. Moving closer, he noticed her eyes, deep and blue like the ocean. An oil painting created by an artist, he thought. The baby was snuggled in a warm blanket, lying comfortably in the stroller. Wide and wild, the baby stared into the world. The stroller moved softly by him. Wallis Juster didn’t even murmur a word. The beautiful woman continued under the shadows of the building in the late afternoon sun.

“So, what will it be?” said the man, still sitting relaxed behind the counter of the stand. He adjusted his baseball cap slightly and attempted to find a cigarette in his pocket.

“Gosh darn it,” he cursed in a harsh voice. The man’s eyes were worn and desperate. You could tell he yearned for nicotine.

“You got a light on you?” he asked ungratefully.

Breaking free from his daydream, Wallis Juster turned back to the man and said in a meek and apologetic tone, “Oh no, I don’t. Sorry.”

The man’s white, worn-out shirt had sweat stains on the neckline. Fraying at the ends, it was soon to fall apart. A large dried food stain was visible in the middle. The whole world seemed to mock the appearance of him.

Still attempting to find a lighter, Wallis Juster noticed his stained hands scarred from years of blue-collar labor. The man smelled of reheated coffee and long-forgotten dreams.

Wallis Juster felt pity and remorse for the man. Looking up, he saw an old crow perched on a dying oak nearby. Dull and naked, the bird resembled an old dishcloth that had been used mercilessly on a bar counter.

The eyes of the crow had seen too many winters. Dense and milky, the shaded eye blinked at Wallis Juster. Its beak was chipped, forming a knife-like edge. The crow judged the world with disdain, looking down on everyone passively.

No one liked crows.

“Come on, I want to go home,” said the man, his hands in his pockets. He was subtly looking up and down the street, like he was waiting for someone.  He had given up on trying to find a lighter.

​​With a deep sigh, Wallis Juster reached into the back pocket of his lightly worn dress pants. He gripped his deeply creased leather wallet and gently opened it, revealing a few faded twenty-dollar bills. Taking one out, he moved his hand slowly toward the man, offering it to him.

Snatching the bill quickly from Wallis Juster’s hand, the man grunted,
“Which one you want?”

Frozen in contemplation, Wallis Juster stared straight into the man’s red-rimmed eyes. There was no fire in his voice. No life. The crowds had worn him thin. The man expected no change in his world. He was stuck on the street like an animal with no owner, and he accepted it willingly.

His place in society wasn’t stolen from him. He gave it away.

His eyes held no laughter, no care. They simply glazed back and forth in his skull, empty. His eyes were like an opening with no window, looking out onto nothing at all.

“I want you to have it,” Wallis Juster replied with a kind smile. In a relaxed posture, he radiated a sense of tenderness. “I hope it brings you happiness.”

In a state of confusion, the man cast his gaze upon Wallis Juster. Almost speechless, his lips trembled. Twitching and murmuring, his eyes began to water.

“I don’t need it!” yelled the man in anger.

He forcefully tossed the bill on the ground, leaving it to be trampled by the crowds.

“I don’t want what you’re selling.”

The proud structure towered over everything that surrounded it, mocking every building in its sight. Dark tinted windows, lined in rows, continued up for many floors. The Building of Evil Glass, they called it. Looming against the dark basilica sky, the work of iron and steel shadowed the city. The jagged building cut itself into the universe, demanding the world’s respect. It watched like a creature in the night.

The smooth door opened, letting in light from the street outside. Wallis Juster entered the lobby. When he entered the building, he was greeted by the cold air conditioning. Biting his skin like a pinprick, a slight chill ran down his spine like a train. His breath felt thin and lifeless. The building lacked warmth of any kind. The silence of the lobby suffocated him. Only the clacking of his worn shoes on the tile floor could be heard.

He waited for the elevator to take him to his floor. The humming of the fluorescent light irritated him. He watched the glowing numbers of the elevator door. One by one, they descended in value. The elevator was slow. He didn’t care.

37, ding, 36, ding, 35, ding.

He stared at the polished metal doors, watching. He breathed in the thin air. The smell of toxic cleaning supplies filled the aroma. Glancing at his watch, then looking up to the numbers again.

20, ding, 19, ding, 18, ding. 

Still not here yet. Glancing around, he stared at nothing. There was no one to look at. No one to smile or wave to. Dead and cold, he was. His body felt cut open, scraped raw. The wounds of his heart tormented him. His thoughts strangled him naked. A vise of demons had his mind grasped. A dull headache pierced his forehead. A dizzy shake consumed his veins. He longed to sleep; he longed for a drug.

A loud ding ruptured through the first floor of the building. The silver iron doors slid open, revealing a mirror from inside the elevator. Slowly walking in, his feet dragged. His posture deformed.

All the work, he thought. What was it for? He never knew. Didn’t see a difference.

Staring into the mirror, he saw his miserable self. Motionless, without emotion, he stared into his own eyes. Time had forgotten him. He looked many years older than he was.

He was heavy. A deep weight kept in the dark waters. He was unable to swim. Sinking, losing his breath, he gave up. Floating down into the abyss of deep despair.

He looked at his reflection one last time, judging himself, laughing on the inside. He laughed, but this was not a laugh of happiness. This laugh was dark and evil. Crackling, horrid, revealing all his pain.

The doors shut. The elevator stood still, waiting for his command. Pushing the correct floor, the button lit up. A sudden jolt from the cables pulled the lift up.

Typewriters. The constant sound of clicking. Click, click, click. The repetitive humming of the mechanical insect worked with no delay. The faded white lights illuminated the room. A room full of fingers dancing on keyboards. The stale smell of graphite and paper filled the air. A sharp ding followed by the zip of the carriage completing the line. The cough and a sneeze of some nameless person echoed throughout the corridors. No windows, just white walls stained from cigarette smoke. 

Ding. The elevator doors glided open with no effort. Wallis Juster stood there exposed to the enormous rows of tables, and typewriters sat heavy on the counters. He continued walking down the long rows of desks until he arrived on his own. His faded nameplate sat alone on the desk, and the single typewriter accompanied it. He sat down and, with a painful sigh, looked out the window at the almost setting sun dropping down over the buildings. The clicking of the machines continued as he wished he were somewhere else.