The applause thundered as the curtain drew to a close. The famous Fox Theater in Atlanta had once again put on a fantastic performance.  As we were herded out of the theater by absentminded ushers I took one last look at the rows of red seats, the lavish organ, and the ceiling made to look like the heavens. The iridescent lights faded and the lush red carpet took on a maroon color as we approached the door. The freezing February air made the blood rush to my cheeks and nose, the frigid air piercing my lungs. Bright street lights revealed people bustling from place to place, hurrying to their next engagement. The honking of horns, the laughing of students, the clacking of heels against the cement washed over me as I took in the nightlife of Atlanta. I turned around in confusion. Our route to the theater flung from my mind with the excitement of downtown; my dad grabbed my shoulder pointing me in the right direction, and we merged with the crowd.

The extensive group of theater goers turned right and began to head down the sidewalk to the Parking Garage located three blocks from the theater. As we walked, I attempted not to step on any cracks in typical 11 year-old fashion. This was the hardest level because of the number of dirt-caked cracks. I had to be extra careful not to step on the puddles that were oceans as far as I was concerned. Litter rolled past me as I neared an overflowing trash can spilling food wrappers—obstacles I had to dodge in my made up game.

As the group walked, an old man appeared out of the shadows in a threadbare coat with a trumpet in one hand and a trumpet case in the other. He sat down on the decaying sidewalk and started to play his trumpet, his weathered face crumbling with weariness. The upbeat tune pouring out of the cold brass did little for his meager pile of coins in the trumpet case. My dad paused for a fraction of a moment to reach into his suit jacket and dropped a wrinkled five dollar bill into the trumpet-player’s case. The crowd hurried along a little faster to avoid catching the gaze of the gaunt old man. As the crowd of people passed by, the only sound that could be heard over the trumpet was the rattle of jewelry on middle-aged ladies’ plump wrists. 

The crowd kept moving.

I wrapped my arms around myself, clutching at the heat that escaped through my clothes.  To the right of us the mouth of a dimly lighted alley loomed. In its gaping maw a boy around sixteen slumped with a battered backpack at his feet. The holes in his sneakers showed their age. He was wrapped in a blanket that hung around his bony shoulders.  Another blanket was spread on the ground next to him. He glared as the group passed by. Those who noticed him huddled closer into the closed rank of theater goers and pointedly looked straight ahead. He would not look for pity, for money, for help; no one would offer. The ragged state of his clothes wasn’t a fashion statement, the bruises on his face weren’t from tripping, the slightly opened bookbag wasn’t full of school work but all his possessions, and so he lurked in the shadows of the sidewalk.

The crowd continued by.

Right before the entrance of the parking garage, the destination of the many theatergoers, was a family sitting on a palette of rags and wrapped in a comforter attempting to soak up any residual heat from the toll booth heaters. The mother was no more than a decade or so older than me, but her eyes betrayed her world-weariness. The beaten tin in front of them was filled with loose change but nothing more than a fiver. Two wide eyed children huddled next to their mother; one was five or six, the other no more than four— already aware of the horrors of the world that I was just now seeing. They were bundled in layers of clothes that had seen better days—any person who accidentally caught the mother's eye quickly averted their eyes from the desperation they struggled not to see. Some reached into their pocket and flung their loose change into the tin. My dad reached once more into his wallet and put a twenty into the tin; the woman's eyes widened as she beheld what now occupied her small collection.

Still we kept moving. As we walked into the parking lot, people dispersed to their Mercedes-Benz, Acuras, and Lexuses. My family got into my dad’s leather-seated truck. He turned on the heater.

And we went home.