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Spitz’s Story Corner: A Helping Hand

September 4, 2013

It’s the bad part of town. Nestled on a rundown street corner rests a bench, basked in the yellow glow of a street light.
Sitting upon this bench is a man, sitting with one leg crossed upon the other and his arm resting comfortably along the backing; his head cocked slightly sideways and his eyes gazing out into the black void to his periphery. His mind is lost to thought.

While some men or women were capable of finding solace in the mundane; comfort in the day by day success of a modern human being, this man’s craving could only be sated within the abandoned blocks of the city. At benches such as the one he had occupied.

Suddenly, the downward facing light gave illusion to a disembodied arm, clutching a serrated blade. This catches the attention, but does not bring surprise to the man on the bench.
He lifts his head to his company.

Skulking in from the darkness is another man, his face hidden by a folded bandanna. He brandishes his blade at the man on the bench, who continues to sit leisurely, with an unscathed look upon his face.
“I know what you want.” The man on the bench says to his would-be assailant.
His adversary gives no pause in attempting to intimidate the man with his knife.
“You need money. Sit down.” The man on the bench motions for the other to take a seat beside him.
“I won’t be tricked, right? I know what you’re trying to do!” Says the assailant.
“No tricks,” says the man on the bench, sitting up slightly to wrestle his wallet out of his back pocket. “Come on. Sit down.”

The man with the knife’s eyebrows lower suspiciously, but after a moment’s hesitation, he lowers his weapon and sits cautiously at the other end of the bench.
The first man hands him a small wad of cash, then rests his arm along the back of the bench once again.

“I know you would never give me your real name, friend, so I’ll give you one.”
The first man thinks for a moment.
“My friends call me John. You can be John as well.” he says, holding a hand out for a hand-shake.
Bewildered, the masked man rests his blade near his chest. The other man shrugs and lowers his hand.
“It’s a hard life out there, John,” the first man says, “everyone expects everything from you, and no one is well equipped to deliver on those expectations.”
After a few moments of silence, he continues.
“I don’t blame you for doing what you think is necessary to get by. All I can say is that I hope you stop to think for a moment next time; before you do something else you’ll regret later on down the road.”
The first man pats the masked man on the shoulder before standing, waving him good-bye, and walking out of the warm glow of the street light.

The masked man holds the wad of cash in front of him for a moment, looking past the green hue and considering his folly.
He stands, walks a few feet down the sidewalk to the nearest garbage bin and tosses his knife into it. He then places the wad of money in his back pocket before returning to the bench to take a seat.

The man then pulls the bandana down from his face and raises an arm to rest on the back of the bench.

Several minutes later, a small revolver cuts in from the darkness, pointing directly at the man’s chest.
The unmasked man motions for his company to come sit with him.
“My friends call me John. I’ll call you John, too.”

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  1. Spitz’s Year-end Wrap Up 2013 | Spitz's Soapbox

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