He saw a dirty man. Filthy. His white shirt—it had been white once—was torn at the elbow and was covered with grime, his shoes at the toes were white where the black polish had worn completely off, his pants reflected no evidence of ever having been pressed and the right leg was ripped from the knee down.
Two girls in their teens passed and giggled.
He was aware that others had noticed him.
"Hey, lookit the bum," a fat jolly-rover called out to his three on-the-towning cronies.
"Bum," the man thought, and reached to his back pocket.
No wallet. But not long ago he had one, he was sure, because the feel of its absence was there. Somebody must have taken it, or he might have lost it. In that crowd or on the subway or before.... He couldn't remember where he had been before.
The feeling of not remembering seemed familiar, and he tried hard to think. But there was nothing static in his mind that he could hold on to. His mind wasn't blank anymore, it was a jumble. He somehow recalled he had been looking for his money. He fumbled through his other pockets.
He found a dirty handkerchief and two cents.
The feel of the coins brought everything back.
Quickly he felt his pulse. It was slower than he had ever known it to be. Sure, there were times before when ... but then the doctor always had been nearby. And this time, the most serious time of all—he looked up at the Westboro sign—he was lost. Perhaps, up on the streets, he would recognize something.