I did not remember, however, until I started up the station steps, that it was forenoon and not my usual time for going home. Then I halted and moved back again to the sidewalk, and stood there in the rain. I understood later why I had done this. I had been suddenly jerked out of a deep rut of habit, and was dazed at finding myself in new conditions. Then, too, I was weighted, groggy, with the aching depression that I was done for, out of the game-old.
I dreaded to go home and tell my wife. If I had been a drinking man, I should have gone off on a drunk.
People jostled by me on their way up the stairs to the Elevated. Dripping umbrellas swished against me. My overcoat was wet, and the rain trickled from my hat-brim. But I stood there lost, dead-like one just sent out of life.
Then my gaze was suddenly caught by an old chap who sold newspapers in this district. I often bought my evening paper from him. He was a little old fellow, with watery eyes, a stubby beard, and straight gray hair that grew a little long. He had one incongruous feature, though-good teeth that were kept clean. I had always noticed them. My vague interest in him had tabulated him a boozer. But to-day I watched him with a new and curious fascination.
He had halted in a doorway, and stood there, hunched up, with his newspapers under his arm. He still wore a summer’s stained and battered straw hat, and a dirty bandana handkerchief was tied about his neck. He was wet and pinched with the cold. He had turned up the collar of his old coat, and stood with one hand in his trousers pocket, as with the effort to coax a little warmth. For the minute, he had forgotten everything but his own discomfort. The hopeless misery of the man looked out of his watery eyes.
A dull sympathy of understanding stirred in me. The next instant I resented this feeling. I resented it because it put me in this old chap’s class. Then the man’s necessity to live pushed him on again to work. He started in my direction, calling out his papers in a cracked and wheezy voice.
I bought a paper from him and started across the street. I had the feeling of hurrying away from something that was clutching at me-as a man, using his last spurt of strength to swim for his own life, tries to keep away from the reach of another who is drowning. But I couldn’t get away from this old fellow. The picture of him filled my inner vision. The feeling of him pulsed through my blood. We truly were in the same class-both old, and both on the edge of life making our struggle.
It was noon. I went into a Child’s restaurant and bought a cup of coffee. That brought me back nearer to normal. I decided to look for another job. Having secured that, I could face my wife with more of encouragement.
All that afternoon I went from one printing-office to another. But they all turned me down. Of course, my rain-soaked appearance did not inspire much confidence. Had I waited, and gone the rounds looking a little less down-and-out, I might have met with success. But later experience has made me feel that it would have made small difference.
After each refusal I grew a few years older. I tried to make my sense of humor work a little. But it wouldn’t. That and every other part of my being was caught in the grip of a shrinking fear. By the time I turned into the doorway of my own Harlem apartment house I was a shuffling old man.