You have passed the same guy on the street for a while now. He always holds a sign that says “The End is Near.” Yet today his sign says “The End has Passed.”
It’s easy to fade into my usual routine as I walk out my front door. The lock clicks into place, the first step squeaks under my foot, and the crack in the sidewalks taunts me. I hop over it lightly, lift my hand in a wave to Mrs. Donley, who I know is sitting on the edge of her railing, taking a drag on a cigarette and pulling that pink robe tighter around her against the cold morning air.
As I approach my favorite coffee shop, I begin digging in my coat pockets for the spare change I always pass to the homeless man who sits outside the doors. His sign rests at his feet; the usual black sharpie against rippled cardboard. “THE END IS NEAR”, it proclaims, as it has every day for a month or so. The white and orange cat also lays at his feet, asleep and oblivious to her freedom to leave him behind and find her own meal. I get my coffee, press a few singles into the man’s hand, and head to work.
The next day is the same. Click, squeak, trip, wave, drag, change. I get my coffee and start to hand the five to the man, but I notice he is not there. Instead, in his place, a new sign. “THE END HAS PASSED” it says. His little tin cup still sits, empty, but he and the cat are gone. I put the five into the cup and keep walking, trying to shake the feeling that has come over me.
At work, there is a solemn air among the techs. One approaches me, biting her lip and looking down at her hands.
“Dr. Gregor, there is a bit of a situation that we aren’t sure how to handle. This man, in the waiting room, he brought his cat in early this morning. She had a metal scrap in her stomach, but it was too late, we couldn’t do anything. The man, he won’t leave. I, well ma’am, I don’t think he can pay the operation fee.” She finishes her statement, glancing up to see my reaction. I gather myself, already knowing what, or rather who, I will find in the waiting room.
Sure enough, the homeless man sits in the far chair, head in his hands. I approach him, holding back my own tears.
“Sir, all of your expenses will be covered. I am so sorry for your loss.” I try to reach out to him, but he pulls his hands away and stands up.
“Thank you,” he says, and then leaves.
That night, I notice he has not returned to his spot near the coffee shop. I never see the man again, and eventually that sign is swept away with the rest of the trash on the streets.