A bent man limps to the sidewalk, steady determination on his sullen face. Each step is labored like a motor with toothless gears. A bony hand grips a wood cane in attempts to balance his weight. Walking is more falling forward and catching himself before he hits the pavement.
The man’s eyes peer out from behind thick glasses. Starring at the ground in front of him, he struggles over every crack and break in the cement. He walks but a few steps before the excursion forces him to pause.
The man’s hair lies flat across his head, the hair on one side of his head combed up over the growing bald spot on his crown. The hair, once a shiny brown now a pale white, is thin and slicked over with grease and last ditch attempts to improve its appearance. Stubble forming on his cheeks and chin is coarse and white, fraying on the edges.
The man finally reaches an intersection and stops for traffic. The street is busy and many other pedestrians stop to wait. When the light turns, a middle aged man tries to help the bent man cross the street but the aged man insists. To everyone’s amazement, he lifts his cane and declares, “I can do it myself. I’m only twenty-four.”