Fiction: The Argument
By Dave Bachmann
arttimesjournal January 25, 2021
“Please don’t change, please don’t change, please don’t change.”
“It’ll change. It always does.”
The red, ’99 Toyota Camry crept toward the traffic light, it’s progress slowed by the long line of cars.
“Stay green, please stay green. Just a minute longer.”
“The traffic light doesn’t hear you, Brian.”
“Yes, it does. Please don’t change.”
Ahead, stationed resolutely next to the road, as if fashioned in stone, stood a homeless man, clutching a cardboard sign against his chest.
“Please stay green. Just a moment longer and I’ll be through the intersection.”
“It’s going to change, Brian.”
“Please, please, please…. damn! It changed!”
“I told you it would, Brian.”
The line of cars stopped. The homeless man began slowly inching forward.
“Oh great. Here he comes.”
“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you pull into the next lane over? There’s room.”
“If I do that, he’ll know I’m trying to avoid him.”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
“I’ll just ignore him. Look straight ahead.”
“His sign says HOMELESS HUNGRY PLEASE HELP.”
“Not very original.”
“And GOD BLESS YOU.”
The homeless man inched forward, staring into each car with wilted eyes, thrusting his sign before him in a feeble, silent plea.
“Why don’t you give him something?”
“I knew you were going to suggest that. You know what they say about giving homeless people money as well as I do.”
“What do they say, Brian?”
“They say not to do it; that it just enables them, allows them to stay homeless.”
The homeless man doggedly shuffled forward, three cars away.
“Didn’t someone say..’inasmuch as you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to me’?”
“Ok, you went to Sunday School. That was a long time ago.”
“Give him something, Brian.”
“He’ll just spend it on drugs. Or alcohol. Or who knows what.”
The homeless man pressed forward, two cars way.
“For I was hungry, and you gave me meat.”
“Stop trying to make me feel guilty.”
One car away.
“Just give him something, Brian. It’s not for you to judge what he does with it.”
Suddenly, the homeless man was there, looming up next to the car, his face etched with sorrow, shoulders slumped. Even his shadow shimmered with despair.
“Look at him, Brian. Just look.”
“No, I won’t. I can’t.”
The homeless man paused, as if sensing the debate taking place inside the car.
“There! It changed. C’mon, start moving.”
“There’s still time, Brian. Just give him something.”
“Go, go, go! What are they waiting for?”
The line of cars, like dominoes falling in slow motion, began creeping forward. The red, ‘99 Toyota Camry began to move.
The homeless man, relinquishing the moment, turned and began trudging back to his station, preparing for the next line of cars, a fresh set of faces, a Sisyphean task he would continue until exhaustion forced him to seek refuge in the tall weeds of a nearby vacant lot.
Brian sighed deeply and sped through the intersection, turning onto the freeway ramp. The red, ’99 Toyota Camry accelerated and merged into traffic, becoming just another car on a crowded freeway. Brian felt himself relax, leaving the homeless man and his conscience behind. The way he had so many times before.