It took great effort but the old man pushed his cart off the sidewalk and into the street, looked both ways before he crossed, then hauled it up and over the opposite curb. It was a warm and windy day and the American flag prominently attached to the cart's handle waved proudly amid a jumble of his other belongings. When a motorcyle cop pulled up beside him, the old man hurriedly retreated into an alley and the officer, who until then had given him no more than a passing glance, turned to follow.
They met under a dilapidated fire escape and the old man cowered but kept his grip on his cart. The officer dismounted and approached him and the old man backed up until he was against the grafitti covered wall of a building. He held his tattered overcoat closed with one hand and his other tightly on the handle of the cart and he was careful to look down and not make eye contact with the officer.
The officer knelt down in front of the overflowing cart and from a small leather bag withdrew a screwdriver. He adjusted the wheels, gave the cart a shake and replaced the tool. From his pocket, he took out his wallet and counted out several bills that he folded and tucked under the flag then backed away deliberately and re-mounted his motorcycle. The old man watched him leave then cautiously retrieved the bills, looked at them one by one, and stuffed them into his shoe, then slowly made his way - pulling the cart and walking backwards - out of the alley and back into the sunshine. The last I saw of him, he and his flag were headed for the riverfront at a sure and steady pace. As he disappeared around the corner, I heard the sound of a motorcycle - it idled for a moment or two then roared past me, the anonymous cop just a blue, black and silver flash in the bright morning sun.
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