A young man. Growing. Jet black hair. Upset at life. In need of role models. Of someone there.
An older man. Down on his luck. Labeled. Stigma running through his veins. Five o’ clock shadow and another haggard night on the streets. It’s too cold for this. His hair misshapen.
A middle class woman. Stressed out. Waiting at the bus stop. A purse with hard earned items. Phone, wallet, makeup. Stories in every item.
The older man, down on his luck, steals her purse. She is scared and her protectory items are stored in her purse, bottom of the bag or not where she had it. She hates everything about that moment.
The young man, knowing better. Runs after the man. Tackles him to the ground. Grabs the purse. Walks it back to the woman. She has sympathy for both men.
She hands the older man some money and tells him next time, to ask for help.
The young man, she is especially careful. He was willing to do what’s right. So much fight even for a stranger. She cries in his shoulder. Thanks him for what he did and asks if he needs anything.
The young man, realizing the impact at the bus stop. Eyes water with the woman, for she was kind and gracious. He says, ‘I don’t know.’
A long pause between them. His eyes, filled with so much and so little. So much in the way youth carries untold answers. So little in how he barely sees his value.
The bus comes. She tells the driver what happened. The driver, connected to the police, connected to the reporter, invoke a new story.
The struggle of the older man, the struggle of the woman, the struggle of the young man. Those stories continue every day.
But in the paper and the next day, the young man stands with officers, the woman meets the media, the older man remains unnamed, but he is fed and has a warmer jacket to get through the night. To a warmer morning.
Realistic Fiction