There was something curiously familiar to me about the wrinkled little man. He was one of those people that you see once and know you’ll never forget.
Several years ago, I was strolling along a sidewalk in Indianapolis that I hadn’t set foot on since I was a kid—Monument Circle, to be exact. Once a dirty, bus fume-choked city, the Hoosier capital had transformed itself into a shining testament of urban renewal. It had been nearly a half century since I’d last visited, and nearly everything had changed. But amid the sparkling newness of the city were a few stark reminders of the days my grandparents took me downtown as a child. Police officers on horseback. The aging theater where I saw The Sound of Music with my parents. The towering Soldiers and Sailors Monument that seemed much less tall now. They all flooded me with warm memories.
Yet a tiny, deformed old man, sitting on a square of plywood with wheels, his legs withered almost to non-existence, made me gasp. I was sure I’d seen him before. How could I have forgotten him at all?
Some four decades later, long-dormant memories resurfaced. Was it possible that he had been sitting there in front of that same department store all these years? Could it be that while I grew up, went off to college, married a woman who loved me, raised children, and found a satisfying career, he had sat in that same spot, day after day after day, waiting for sympathetic shoppers to help him earn a meager living.
I drew closer to him and noticed more clues that he and I had, indeed, met in the long distant past. Both of his calloused hands grasped blocks of wood that he used to propel himself along the city sidewalks. I remembered those worn blocks. I remembered the pencils, too. They were yellow and unsharpened, standing ramrod straight in a glass jar. With those recollections, I recalled the pity I felt for him when my grandparents explained that he made his living selling them to passersby. I proceeded past the man, hoping he wouldn’t notice my stare. I very much wanted to know if he was the same person—but how could it not have been?
I turned, walked back, and stopped at his makeshift “shop.”
“Didn’t I used to see you here when I was a kid?” I asked. He smiled up at me. “I’ve been here over forty years. That was me,” he said with certainty. We talked for several minutes. During that short conversation, he didn’t tell me how badly life had treated him. He didn’t complain about how uncomfortable the hot, humid summers or the frigid Indiana winters must have made him. I’m sure he could have, but instead, he wanted to know about me. When he inquired what had brought me back to the city again, I told him I was there on business. I wanted to ask how he managed to live the way he had, but his dignity prevented me.
After a while, we said goodbye. I dropped a bill in his jar and chose a pencil to help remind me of our brief meeting. I walked to my car, something the old man had never had the privilege of doing. I returned home to my good job in a comfortable office with a view. I kissed my wife and hugged my children. And I thanked God for allowing a tiny old man with withered legs to help me put my petty little problems in their proper place.
A diminutive, misshapen man selling pencils on a sidewalk unknowingly misdirected me away from the everyday negatives and worries I carried unnecessarily. I left that nostalgic encounter with him, and my past, a bit more directed toward the positives I already possessed and the future they promised.
So, watch for the positives that life inevitably brings your way and seize them as opportunities to misdirect yourself away from self-deception and negativity and toward a hope-filled lifestyle of positivity.
From Rod Robison’s book The Magic of Cultivating Positive Emotions: Four Powerful Secrets Mentalists Use to Influence Thoughts and How You Can Use Them to Improve Your Emotional Health. Available at www.TucsonMagician.com/books
Rod Robison is a mentalist, magician, author and speaker who helps companies and organizations create unforgettable, magical events for their employees and clients. More at www.TucsonMentalist.com
