This was originally sent in to a contest based on the song "Yellow Man Street" by Irish singer Eamonn O'Connor. I won, but would now like to expand this out to something more significant. Any comments on what to elaborate on, delete, or an actual storyline would be helpful. If you would like, Eamonn can be found on myspace easily.




Eugene may as well blend into the pavement.

May as well.

Since his grandfather's conception, Eugene has pulled his cart onto the sidewalk, creeping closer to the road, to sell what would sell'books, bookends; pint glasses, shot glasses, eyeglasses; foreign dirt, foreign water; statues of saints, statues of sinners. He sold everything but himself. Eugene would willingly give himself again. He had twice: once at eight to a girl with red pigtails and the knowledge of exactly which spot to kick on a boy's shin to make it hurt the most, and again to a Spanish girl who didn't understand a word he said. She took him, but didn't give herself in return. Eugene was convinced she hardly even noticed when he stopped coming around her house.

So he pulled his cart out, ready to sell, ready to give. He watched as people passed by each day, hardly willing to meet his eyes for fear of even talking to him. It wasn't his merchandise they rejected, it was him. The women held onto the men's arms and the men pretended to have nobler things on their minds'to noble to be bothered by a man with a cart, but not too noble to be bothered by a woman on their arms. The street sweeper came by, pushing his broom'he nodded to Eugene, but at least that was something. Eugene thought the sweeper's job was nobler than his. What he sold changed with the seasons, changed with the economy, changed with public tastes and likes and dislikes. The sweeper's job was the same every day: sweep the streets. That aversion to change made it noble.

Eugene listened to the boots on the sidewalk. Each life on the street reduced itself to a click or a thud, followed by a scrape back and up to make the next click. Their lives may be far richer than his, but to the blind man, they all sound alike.

He dragged his left boot through a crack in the sidewalk and let it fall into the street. Then the right. Soldiers start on the left foot. Dancers on the right. Walkers start on what's convenient and pass by carts that aren't.

Eugene may as well blend into the pavement.

May as well.

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