THE FLAG Carolyn Mason Music-to-shop-by wafted its way outside from department stores and grocery stores. Bubbly tunes mingled together to create the inharmonious, compatible sounds at a fair. The smell of buttered popcorn wavered elusively on the air and flitted away. Above the city, I could see splashes of circus colors dotting the mountainside. I would not have been surprised to see a merry-go-round in the middle of Main Street. Faces, laughing, smiling faces greeted my own. Three girls laughed near me. Leaning toward each other, they gushed and whispered excitedly. And I lived with them. I laughed and gushed and whispered with them. I was happy, circus day happy, Christmas Eve happy. And then through the gay faces I saw the old man in the shabby, faded clothes. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk near a window which displayed Dior's latest. Leaning on his cane with one hand, his other hand extended an upturned hat. Miniature flags circled the inner brim of the hat. I tensed, as an elastic pulled taut. The sight disgusted, and at the same time, pained me. I hated what he was and pitied him. Hunched over his stick, he raised imploring eyes to hustling shoppers, who as they approached him, hustled even more, and found something to demand their urgent attention on the other side of the street. He gave them a longsuffering smile, which seemed to say, "I forgive you." I felt about these people as I had felt about him disgusted and sorry. They could not bring themselves to look at him, yet I felt the same stab they may have felt. As a victory I resolved to look at him. My pulse seemed to race ahead of me. I hoped he would turn away. My mouth was dry and my hands were moist. I hoped someone would drop a coin in his hat when I passed by so he would not see me. But he did not turn and no one dropped a coin into his hat. I looked at him. His ice blue eyes entreated me. My lips forced themselves into a brief smile. And he smiled at me a piteous smile, his eyebrows arched. His full beard was the color of whitewash. Because of it, his eyes gave the only clue that he was smiling. I had passed him now, but his eyes still penetrated me. 36 There was something about him that made my stomach turn not him in particular but all those like him. "He preys upon sympathies," I told myself. "Men get what they earn in this life. He's a leech on society." "But does a man really get what he earns?" I asked myself. "Isn't it possible that life cheats some men? Could this man have been an idealist? Could he have done his best to succeed, only to have been ousted by a man with less ability but more influence? Could his belief in men have been shattered?" Nothing seems sadder than a disillusioned idealist. He needed me. He needed to know that somone cared. "How he would laugh at me," I argued. "He doesn't want my help. He is most content with what he can beg from people." "Maybe he really wants help, but doesn't know it. If someone would only help him, maybe he would help himself." Other people were standing near me waiting for the bus. Fingering in my pocket, I found the correct bus fare, and fifty cents. The coins felt as if they had been coated with mercury. Fifty cents. That was all I would need to give him. I was relieved to tell myself the bus was due, but my watch assured me time was generous. I thought of the story of the Apostles, Peter and John, when they went to the temple to pray. Outside the temple was a lame man, asking alms. The two men had no money, but instead, they gave the strength to walk. And I wanted to give this man something more than money. I wanted to give him the will to start again, the initiative to depend upon himself. I wanted to give him hope and happiness. In short, I wanted to "save" him. He needed me. My bus came in sight, but I turned away, hurrying through the crowd. My eyes strained to catch sight of the shredded brown jacket and white hair. One of me prayed to find him, the other dreaded to. What would I say to him? What could I? Something simple and significant to help him. My throat ached until I could not swallow. He was in the middle of the sidewalk now, facing me as though he expected me. The blue eyes begged. I walked straight to him and dropped the fifty cents into the gaping mouth of the hat, sparsed with pennies and nickels. "Thank you, sweetheart," he drawled, handing me a flag. Putting my hand on his arm, I said, "God bless you." That was all I could say, and I meant it. He sneered and his eyes narrowed. "God bless you too," he mocked. 37