He
comes down the hill at a slight angle to the sidewalk, hesitantly,
moving his red tipped white cane from side to side until it touches the
fender of a lavender Pontiac parked at the curb. Then he
stops. He reaches out with his left hand until he touches the
cold metal pole of a No Parking sign, pulls himself close, stands with
his arm wrapped around the pole in the narrow space between pole and
car, waits and listens. He seems unsure, seems to have difficulty
sorting the various sounds. Traffic to the right, traffic behind, wind
blowing uphill from the Lake, the sound of a few leaves on the
concrete. No passersby. End of the day, end of fall.
He listens, head slightly raised, hat pushed back, eyes closed.
He is neither young nor old: a man between a car and a pole. He
waits a long time. Then he moves his cane to the right, up into
the rear wheelwell of the car, then away to the left. He releases
the pole and takes two careful steps downhill, moving the cane in front
of him.
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