Harveys

There was a man who worked on the corner of Bellevue and St. James six days a week, who only came out at dusk to have a smoke. I usually saw him from a distance, across from the park. He was weary, very weary. He always took off his dirtied blue apron and wiped it on his soaked brow. He always stared down at the steps he was sitting on as he took long drags on his cigarette. His guests would mutter among themselves as he squatted outside. But he never cared. It was his establishment, his house. 

Today was like any Friday, except that this particular sunset was casting an exceptionally fiery hue upon everything. Besides that, the street hummed with the normal sounds of evening commuters going home, or for the young people, going out. It was going to be a busy evening, he said to himself. He squinted at the park beyond the bustling street and gazed numbly at the fat red sun drowning under the park's horizon. 

The man took out a scarred leather notebook and a stick of crisp charcoal. He cut to a clean page, and began sketching, of what I did not know exactly. I always saw him drawing. I think it was only natural for him to have this ritual; he did it to alleviate his mind from the repetitiveness of his labor; he drew so he could stay in control. From his perspective on the steps I could only imagine the world being nothing but the same every day. Perhaps he was looking for, or imagining, a change in his monotone world, something different each day to sketch, something that contrasted with kitchen work and orders. Or perhaps I was overthinking it. 

The red sun was gone, and the white street lights flickered on. The man blew the excess charcoal off the pages and snapped shut the old leather covers of his notebook. He stood up and ground what remained of his cigarette underneath his heel. The sky was starting to turn purple. He straightened his apron, checked the street, and breathed one final breath of the fresh outdoor air. He opened the door, and resigned himself back into his old domain.