The Artist

He’s sitting maybe ten feet in front of me, eyes buried in his Moleskine sketchbook, hands inching up and down with graphite in hand. I walked past him on my way in, and he was sketching out a contorted looking figure — a skinless man, it appeared, muscular system twisted about in unimaginable ways.

His right ankle rests over his left knee, but his right foot remains restless with a steady, relentless bounce. To his left lies a tall paper cup, empty and kicked over by a breeze. At least eight people walk past him, each slowing to look down at his drawing as they pass. At least eight people are unnoticed, or at the very least ignored, by the man. A tune, one not recognizable to myself, faintly wanders from his iPhone.

Whenever he finishes, his foot stops shaking and he looks up. He takes in his surroundings — I imagine that the man hasn’t bothered to look up since the sun was last up, and it’s been at least two hours since it went down.

What’s he wearing? Black loafers, khaki pants, a white collared shirt and a grey casual vest. The “artiste” look I think he’s striving for is simultaneously pushed forward and held back by his black rim glasses and his cleanly shaven face. One cannot possibly be a starving artist with a clean face…doesn’t he know the rules?

Upon his noticing of the empty coffee cup, he binds his book and struts inside for a refill before returning to his seat. He puts away the graphite and replaces it with an ink pen and reopens his sketchbook. For a brief moment, he closes his eyes and rolls his shoulders back, and then starts his work again.

His phone rudely interrupts the man, ringing out with a generic iPhone tune which forces the artist to pack up and retreat back to his silver car. From my point I cannot hear him talking, but his drawing hand rubs into his forehead in a response to this stressor. The man lights a cigarette, well out of distance from Starbucks’ new “no smoking within 25 feet of stores” policy (something this guy failed to comply with), before stepping into his vehicle and driving off.

I think I’ll see the artist again.

The Phone Man

I had just stepped out of Subway after picking up a sandwich for my mother when he started to shout for me.

“Hey man!” and “Yo! Hey!” filled the air, statements that I’ve grown accustomed to ignoring because of where I live. Generally when people shout these things at me, they want you to loan them a cigarette or buy them beer or, on most occasions, give them money. So for the first twenty steps — thirty, maybe, I wasn’t counting — I ignored him. The shouts started to get louder, which I attributed to him getting closer, so I finally looked up.

“Yeah?”

He asked if he could use my phone.

Immediately my mind started to flood with thoughts of what was going to happen if I gave him my phone. Maybe he would stab me and run away with it, or perhaps he would bash me in the face with his hand full of heavy metal rings and leave me bleeding in the parking lot while he drove away with both my car and my phone. For some reason I could only think of the worst outcomes, and not the fact that — maybe — he just wanted to use my phone.

After recovering from my momentary panic, he finally made his way over to me and told me his story.

He was supposed to be meeting his brother out here to help him with a car detailing job (“Oh great,” I thought, “He’s going to hand me a business card.”), but had been waiting here for a half hour after his brother had failed to show up. The reason he wanted to use my phone was so that he could call his brother and find out where he was.

“You can put it on speakerphone, man, I don’t even need to touch it.”

I thought about it, and proceeded to pull out my phone before he said “I’ll even pay you man, how much ya’ want?”

This admittedly scary looking man, sweating profusely, was offering me money to use my phone. He removed a wad of cash from his jeans and started to unfurl his bills. Tens, twenties, fifties and — Jesus, did I see a Benjamin in there? — ultimately I refused his money. “It’s a phone call, man, don’t worry about it.” I told him, handing him my iPhone.

I don’t know why I went from fearing that the man would stab me in broad daylight to trusting him with an electronic that, admittedly, I treat better than I would my own child. Was it the cash? Was the offer of money a reason to entrust a man with my most prized possession? Was it his openness? Or maybe my trust sprouted from fear, as if to say “Oh man I better give him my phone before he kills me.”

I don’t know why, but I’m glad I did.

He called his brother, and discovered that he was in the wrong place. You see, this man was not from around here — he was from Tennessee, actually — and was just here to help make a few bucks with his brother. After hanging up, he handed the phone back to me and thanked me over and over again. “God bless, dude, you’re a great man, have a great day!” he kept saying in different iterations as he shook my hand.

He went his way, I went mine. I’m glad I could help, but I feel a sense of shame for thinking the way I did.