It's Not Me

 

A waist-high block wall ran the length of the apartment complex.  The wall was between the sidewalk and the road.  For years there was an old man leaning against the wall, just watching the line of morning traffic slowly pass by.   It was every weekday, you just knew he’d be leaning there on the wall, just watching.

Traffic moved slowly along the road.  Assorted strangers in their cars making their way to work, fussing with make-up, eating the last of their breakfast, none of them paying attention to the old man.  Obviously retired, he no longer felt the pressure of deadlines, insane schedules, or moronic meetings.  Never again would he be working for someone who should have never become a supervisor.

Neither did he have familiar faces around him, or the unfortunate smell of someone wearing too much perfume.  No longer were there office parties with cake, celebrating a birthday.  Now it was the low rumblings of passing Fords, Chevys and Toyotas.   Exhaust fumes replaced the smell of stale aftershave and old dirty carpeting. 

I’ve had the image of him leaning on that wall in my head for years.  Never once did I pull over to talk to him, introduce myself and ask him why he stood there every day.  Was there nothing more he wanted out of retirement than to quietly rejoice in not being one of the people in the passing cars.

Then again, maybe that was enough.