I haven’t always been like this. I haven’t always been pathetic. I was actually one of the best professors in Seattle at one time. My daughter was the best thing in my life. My wife and I were divorced when she was a baby and my wife was granted a greater amount of custody than I. I cherished the times I had with Emma. I only had her on the weekends. I would spend the whole week thinking of things we could do together. I would pick her up as early as I could and drop her off as late as her mother would let me. Emma loved dance. She was a great little dancer and I thrilled to see her dance every Friday night. I was allowed to watch her practice, and pick her up from dance to take her to my apartment. That would start my weekend with her.
It was January and we had just gotten a big snow storm. I was being held after at the school by some students who were struggling with a very difficult concept. I didn’t mind staying late to help the kids. They needed me, and I was there to make sure they understood everything that was being taught. I lost track of time, and when I checked my clock I realized I wouldn’t be in time to pick up Emma from dance. I called one of Emma’s dance friend’s mom, and she happily agreed to take Emma to her mom’s where I would pick her up when I got done with work. When I was done helping the kids I hustled out of the office and went out to my car. It was snowing pretty hard now, and I almost slipped a few times walking to my car. I got in and sat in the car for about 5 minutes waiting for it to warm up. I pulled out of the parking lot and was on my way to get Emma. I was a few blocks away from her mom’s house when I could see the flashing lights of police cars. I instantly knew something horrible had happened when I turned onto her street and saw two police cars sitting in front of her house. I ran to the front door and I could hear Emma’s mother wailing and sobbing as I burst through the door. The police officer proceeded to tell me my daughter had been in a car crash and hadn’t made it. I didn’t get out of bed except for the funeral. Everything in my apartment reminded me of my daughter. I stopped going to work. I lost my apartment soon after. You would think this would be a devastating thing to happen, losing your apartment, and being forced to live out on the streets of Seattle. To me, it was a relief; nothing reminded me of my daughter anymore. Now I’m here, on this street corner, my miserable life droning on.
I watch the same people go by every day, or rather, the same shoes, hurrying to get to work. I watch people’s feet go by. I can stare all I want at the ground. No one has to give me a polite smile. No pity. No disgust. The shoes do not judge me.
Today is a s***** day here in the city of Seattle. It’s cloudy and has been drizzling all day so everything is slicked down. A woman in light stilettos I see every day stumbles on the white sidewalk. She catches herself at first, but as soon as she thinks she has recovered she trips again on a small crack in the sidewalk. Her beautiful white coat falling down hard with her and her coffee cup flies into the air. I jump up to help her; I grab her hand and help her up. I look into her face as she looks up. I’m shocked, I look into this young woman’s eyes, I don’t see judgment. Even worse, I see my daughter. She looks just like her. Big brown eyes and light brown hair. Her heart shaped face, complete with dimples that emerge when smiles at me. I am looking at my Emma, my Emma if she had grown up, and grown up is what she would be by now. The woman looks, gives me an awkward smile, and I realize I’m still gripping her hand. I quickly let go but continue to stare at her. She gives me a quiet “thank you.” as she nervously steps back into the flow and rhythm of the stepping feet.
I look down at my hand, it’s encrusted with dirt. It hasn’t been washed in a long time. I instantly feel embarrassed. What if my daughter had seen my hands like this, she wouldn’t want to hold my hand anymore like she always did when we would go on walks together. I stuff my hands in the filthy pocket of my coat. I should probably go wash my hands in case I have another run in with my daughter look-alike. Emma would want me to keep my hands clean. I walk down the streets trying to find a place to wash my hands.
I head into a small café I used to go to every day before work, in my previous life, in my Emma life. I got to know the owner of the place pretty well. He would have my order ready before I even got there. Café au late, and a raspberry scone. It has been years now since I had been there. I almost wanted to walk in and tell John the owner I would have my regular. Of course I couldn’t do that. I have no money, and no one would recognize me. I walk in and the bells of the door ring, letting the workers know a new customer has entered the café. The workers smile as soon as they hear the bell but it quickly fades as they turn and see me. They look at me with pity now.
“Excuse me sir, can I help you?” John asks.
“May I use your bathroom?” I ask. It is hard to act like I think of this man as a stranger when I had considered him a friend. Suddenly, I feel pathetic. Not being able to buy my usual coffee. Coming in just to use the bathroom, because I needed to wash up, because I didn’t have a bathroom of my own.
“Of course, go down that hallway and you will see the sign.” John smiles as I walk down the hall. I nod my head in thanks. John continues to stare, he looks into my eyes, and his smile fades quickly as I turn my head away from him. I walk into the bathroom, and am surprised by the man in the mirror. I barely recognize myself. The bewildered sad eyes in the mirror are mine. It is the first time I have taken a good look at myself in a while. My hair is long and snarly. What Emma always called the scruff on my face, was no longer just scruff. My eyes look dark and puffy. I can’t help but to just stare at myself for a while. I begin the work on my dirty hands. It takes me a good ten minutes to get all the dirt off. I must say my hands look a lot better. I look at my hands and suddenly I feel a tiny bit of hope; a feeling that I could change if I wanted to. It would take work but I could do it. For some reason I also feel that I want to change. I walk back down the hall. All the workers are gone, in their break room. John is nowhere in sight either. I walk slowly out of the café. Right before I get to the door, I stop and turn around. Sitting at the edge of the counter is a café au late, and a raspberry scone, my order. My regular order I always got when I came in here every day. I walk over to it and pick it up. A ten dollar bill is folded up under the coffee cup. My first feeling is gratefulness, in this freezing city it would be wonderful having a warm drink, but that ten dollars would not be something I can take. John is a hardworking man, and he deserves every penny he makes, his money shouldn’t be given away to some man who gave up on life. The feeling of gratefulness is quickly replaced my embarrassment. I feel sick knowing someone has recognized me. A friend who had once known me as a professor now knows me as a bum. I picked up the hot coffee, and the scones wrapped in paper, and leave the ten dollars right where it was. I hurry out the door. I walk around for a while, I feel like a different man with my clean hands. I think people are proud of me because I washed my hands off.
I wake up the next day in my usual spot. I sit there for a while watching the shuffling feet go by when I see her. I see my Emma. It is ridiculous how much this young woman looks like her. She must walk by every day, and now that I notice how much she looks like my daughter, she’s all I can see. I quickly pull my hands out and lay them on my lap, hoping she will notice how clean they are. I find that I am watching the people, not just their shoes. Everyone is busy and going somewhere: people in a hurry, people distracted, drinking coffee, talking on the phone, looking forward. No one is looking at me. I stand. I stay still, and look at the faces of the people, now eye level. I find myself trying to make eye contact, though I am not sure why. Maybe I just want to prove that I am really here. The professor is here. I stand a little taller.
I am standing the next day when my Emma walks past. She is wearing a yellow coat. I revisit my coat. It is worn, threadbare, and dirty. Emma used to tell me I smelled “like soap.”
The following day Emma walks by and I am standing, with clean hands, and wearing clothing that I purchased at the local thrift store. I see her coming up the sidewalk, and I start to smile. She looks like she is in a hurry, and glances at her watch as she quickens her pace. She passes by, and continues on, past the coffee shop, past the pharmacy, and darts into an office building, Emma must work here. I walk toward the building that Emma entered. The first floor is a bank. As I stand staring at the door, a man in a grey suit opens the door, and says to me “Good morning sir.” He is holding the door open for me.
I gave him a smile and a small shake of my head and turn around walking away from the offices. I find a bench right near the front of the building; I sit and look at the building. Emma is in there working hard, day by day. Many of those workers must have had terrible things happen to them in their lives. They continued to get up and work every day, they continue on in their lives every day. Maybe they didn’t have anyone they needed to make proud of them, but they could be proud of themselves. Something I was unable to do. I sit on the bench and think of my Emma, my real Emma, and what she would be thinking of me now. I am not the father she was proud of. Even though she isn’t here with me, I want to be the man she knew. I think about my students, and how they had been like children to me. How I was someone they could look up to, and I was proud of myself for helping them. I watch people go in and out of the building for a while. I get up and start walking down the street. Walking down the street toward the school I taught at.
It’s warm out now, and spring has even managed to touch the cool grey city of Seattle. The sky is unusually blue, and fog free. I am sitting in the café about an hour before my first lecture begins. I am watching people go by when I see my Emma. Not really my Emma. She turns the corner and looks down where I used to sit. A puzzled expression forms on her face. She looks around as she walks. She is looking for me. She looks left, and right, and then slowly turns, and continues stepping toward her job. I fold up my newspaper, finish my coffee, smile to myself, and head to work.