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Why I Keep A Brick In My Room
Once I found myself walking
along the streets of a broken and
run-down city. I eventually spotted a man
who couldn’t have been much more than fifty,
but life had aged him to at least seventy.
A man that others walked past without hardly a glance,
speeding up so that they didn’t have to see him.
He sat on the curb in filthy clothes and
a torn hat that read “ARMY”, next to a
plastic bag that held a few pitiful items.
Next to him was a brick that had fallen
off the old building behind him. I walked
up to the man and asked, “Excuse me Sir,
is this your brick?” The man looked up
and I met his eyes, so full of pain and suffering.
Eyes that expected ridicule and hatred,
rather than kindness. “It’s a very nice brick,”
I said, “May I buy it off of you?”
The man’s face did not change.
I reached into my wallet and pulled out
a fifty dollar bill. I held it out to the man.
His eyes searched mine for a while,
for what I don’t know. Perhaps trickery, deceit.
Then he slowly reached out and took
the money. When he finally spoke,
his voice was coarse and broken.
“God bless you, young man.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
“Well, I just really like this brick.”