It was an unusual cold windy day for August. People were scurrying along the sidewalks in a hurry to take shelter from the city’s weather. A shriveled man in a dark and soiled overcoat chose to walk slower than everyone else. Today was a special day for him and he took his time. Anyone who knew this man called him Stan. The little man didn’t have a real name. He had forgotten a long time ago. He also forgot why people called him Stan.

Today was a special day for Stan. It was Thursday; the day he could go to the grocery store and buy day-old bagels at a lower price. There was enough to eat at the hostel where he stayed but he liked to keep his bag of buns by his cot. Sometimes at night he would carefully remove the twist-tie from the plastic wrap and take a bagel out. He savoured the chewy texture of it. But he did so, quietly, being cautious not to wake up George or Fred sleeping on the adjacent cots.

Stan left the store after giving the cashier a dollar and nine cents in small change. Sometimes he felt so uncomfortable in there. Customers appeared disgusted as they stared at Stan in his tattered clothing. He only wished to pick out his goods from the bakery section and leave. Outside the store, Stan could see the sun beginning to appear from behind the gray clouds. Maybe it’ll be warmer now, he thought. Standing near the exit of the food store were a few boys and a girl. The kids, all dressed in jean jackets, couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. The were smoking cigarettes and laughing loudly. If they were my kids I’d never let them out of the house, Stan thought. What were they doing out of school anyway? I guess it’s their parents’ business, Stan concluded. The group had noticed him immediately.

“Hey wino!” called one of the boys.

The group laughed louder. Stan never drank liquor, not like some of the other guys at the home. He ignored the comment and walked out towards the parking lot. The kids ran up to Stan. They preferred to taunt him further as they circled about him. Stan turned to walk in the other direction but the gang refused to let him escape so easily.

“Please leave me alone,” Stan said meekly.

They ignored his plea and continued chanting something Stan did not understand. He looked around the parking lot. Housewives carrying their groceries to their respective cars failed to notice or choose to disregard the commotion before them. Stan looked into each of the faces of the children.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

The children now began tugging at his clothing as they laughed even more. Stan clutched the bagels to his chest. The checkout girl never gave him a bag or receipt. A taller boy tried to grab the bagels from Stan. Stan slung tighter, causing his bread to squish. This made the boy try harder but he was unsuccessful. The watch on Stan’s wrist, however, was wrenched free. It had a metal clasp which broke loose in the struggle. The gold coloured time piece fell to the pavement. Stan only looked at the slight cut on his hand beginning to redden. A horn blared directly behind Stan. He watched in surprise as the kids now fled and then turned to face a policeman emerging from a yellow police car.

“Are you alright?” inquired the cop as he walked towards Stan.

“I think I’m fine,” Stan replied softly.

He still clutched the bag in one arm as he examined his hand. The policeman’s eyes appeared to be scanning everything. He noticed amusingly the bagels as he looked Stan over quickly head to toe. Seeing a watch on the ground, he bent to pick it up. The cop examined the man’s shoes. They were well-worn, without colour and in need of new laces.

“Is this yours?” asked the cop as he inspected the watch.

He noticed an inscription on the back of it. All my love, Louisa, it read.

“Yes, it’s mine,” Stan replied quietly.

“Very nice,” said the uniformed man as he handed the watch to Stan.

He looked at Stan’s unshaven face, searching his eyes for some answers. The cop wondered what had happened to this man. Did he lose all his money in bad stocks? Did his wife leave him? He felt sorry for the man. He felt sorry for ever vagrant he encountered, but this one more so. This one appeared younger than most bums and winos he came across.

“What’s your name?” he asked Stan.

“It’s Stan.”

“Stan, –the inscription, who’s Louisa?” the cop now asked.

Stan looked puzzled but remained silent.

“On the watch,” the cop said as he pointed.

Stan examined the back of the watch and read the engraving. He didn’t remember seeing it before nor did he know who Louisa was. Somehow this incised message added to his pain. There had been times Stan tried to remember his past. He had tried desperately, so much that he had often found himself screaming in frustration. He shut his eyes tightly and winced, attempting to recall something –anything. Stan opened his eyes but seemed oblivious to the other man’s presence. The cop sensing the disturbance in Stan spoke.

“Well, Stan, if you’re not hurt or anything, why don’t you go home? You do have some place to go?”

Stan felt lost, but he managed to reply with a nod. He looked up at the policeman for the first tome. The constable seized the opportunity and studied Stan’s eyes. There was no life in those eyes. No soul to be felt.

Several days had past since the incident at the food store. Stan was returning home to the hostel from what he considered a hard day’s work. This consisted of selling lottery tickets on the street corners in the city’s business district. The job had been arranged by Mrs. Goodis from the home. Everyone at the residence said he had a knack for selling. Work of this sort seemed to come easily to Stan unlike some who preferred to obtain their money from begging. And there were others like Egerton who was only a little better than the rest. He considered himself a street musician. Stan thought Egerton’s harmonica and wondered who would pay to hear such noise. There was a feeling of superiority that Stan felt towards his friends. And today, even though he sold all but one of his tickets, he had made only enough money to pick up some bagels.

Stan stood before the hostel building. It was old and shabby compared to the part of town where he had just come from. The dirty brick structure was his home, but lately Stan felt out of place. He felt he belonged elsewhere. He pulled open the red painted door and walked in, feeling depressed. In foyer was a group of grubby men crowded together trying to read a sign on the wall.

“Hey, here’s Stan. He can read it for us.” one of the men said.

Stan often read newspaper aloud after supper, or even the Bible when he was called upon. He gently pushed his way through to get a closer look. Stan began to read it out.

“To all residents, please be advised…”

His voice stopped and he finished quickly to himself.

“It says we have to go to more prayer meetings.”

The men grumbled as they started to disperse. Stan didn’t mind the prayer meetings. They often gave him some hope to his nowhere existence. For the most part, Stan was content. But there had to be more to his life. Who am I? Where did I come from? These had been questions Stan was almost afraid to find the answers to. Lately that’s all he thought of.

Stan walked up the stairs holding his bagels. Instead of going to the sleeping area he went to the bathroom, and closed the door behind him. The paint on the walls was peeling but the bathroom was pleasant nonetheless. Setting his bagels down on the floor, Stan then stood before the sink. He took off his watch, set it down on the edge of the basin and began rolling up his sleeves. Stan paused and picked up his watch. He studied the engraving carefully for the umpteenth time since he had been made aware of it days ago. All my love, Louisahe read again and again. Stan closed his eyes tightly and clutched the watch firmly in the palm of his hand. Feeling the frustration, his arm began to shake uncontrollably. With the watch still in his fist, he slammed it down on the counter. Stan opened his eyes, surprised at his violent outburst. He looked into the mirror and studied himself. There had been countless times in which he glanced at the reflection of his face. This was the first time he actually looked at himself. Stan set down the watch again and stared back into the mirror. He began touching his face, feeling the contours of his nose, and the roughness of his unshaven chin and the dryness of his skin. He looked deep into his own eyes. They were a cold grayish-blue colour. His lips began quivering.

“Stephen,” he said.

“My name is Steven Peterson.”

He closed his eyes still feeling his lips shaking. His face tightened. The man didn’t know how to react. He felt joy remembering his name but he also felt more frustrated. Stephen couldn’t remember much else. He slipped the watch back on and grabbed his bagels. Stephen opened the door slowly and descended the stairs. Peering around the corner at the bottom of the stairway, he saw everyone seated in the dining area. Stephen turned and looked back again before quietly slipping out the front door.

The police station was going at its usual hectic pace. Couples lodging complaints, lawyers demanding to see someone were some of the people flocked together in this part of the building. Stephen somehow knew that this was where he should go. He approached the first desk and stood there quietly. Finally, a sergeant spoke.

“What can we do for you, fella?”

“My name is Stephen Peterson,” replied Stephen in a dazed voice.”

He didn’t make an effort to say anything else. The sergeant gazed at the man’s clothing and then the bread he was holding. The sergeant acted accordingly and flatly said:

“Why don’t you take a seat over there.”

He pointed to some wooden chairs against the wall by the entrance. As Stephen turned around to do so, the sergeant shook his head in annoyance and approached the next person.

“What can we do for you,” he said.

Sitting quietly in the uncomfortable chair, Stephen was oblivious to much of the proceedings going on. He only stared in a dream-like trance at the clock on the wall behind the front desk. Constable Kirk passed on a stack of papers to another cop and looked over the counter to the reception area. He noticed a wino seated on the far side. Kirk began to walk away but something caught his eye. He looked again towards the man and noticed the bagels the wino was holding. Remembering the man, Kirk came around to the reception area.

“Hey Stan!” Kirk said as he approached the little man.

Stephen continued to stare at the clock. Kirk repeated:

“Stan.”

The man in the chair turned and gazed upwards. He didn’t appear to remember the cop. Instead he only said:

“My name is Stephen Peterson.”

“What’s that?” asked Kirk.

“I’m Stephen Peterson,” he said again in a dreaded voice.

Though Kirk felt a concern for people like Stan he often ignored their comments. Looking into the man’s eyes Kirk felt a cry for help. He felt a sudden need to help this man.

“Stephen Peterson eh? I’ll be back in a sec,” Kirk said.

Sitting as he had been Stephen returned to stare at the clock. Kirk came back after some time, holding a file folder. He held up a photo and knew this was the man.

“Stan, I mean Stephen,” Kirk began.

“Do you know who you are?”

He didn’t know what else to say. Stephen only shook his head. Kirk sat down in the chair slowly next to him.

“Stephen, you were an insurance agent. Three years ago, you were in a car accident. They found your car in a small ravine. Your identification was in a brief case but there was no trace of you. You’ve been missing ever since.”

Kirk looked at Stephen, searching for some reaction. There was none. After a brief silence Kirk spoke.

“There’s an address here. Wait here.”

Kirk went to the front desk.

“Levine I’m going to knock off early tonight.”

Kirk went back to Stephen, helping him to his feet. During the drive, Stephen sat in the police car, beside Kirk, blankly staring at the passing streets. Neither man spoke. Kirk had been to this part of town several times.

It was a quiet neighborhood. The car began pulling into a driveway. Stephen looked at the house. It was a large red brick one with a rose garden by the window. He read the numbers on the mailbox.

Both men emerged from the car. Stephen followed as Kirk approached the cement walkway. The both stopped and turned as a small boy rode up on a red bicycle. Laying his bike on the grass, the child stared at the two men. Stephen felt sadness and joy come over him. He knew the boy. Stephen reached out with his hand.

“Tommy,” he said.

The boy, afraid of the strange man, ran into the house. Seconds later a petite woman with the boy clinging to her appeared at the doorway. She looked at the policeman first, then at both men. She appeared puzzled. Opening the storm door, she stepped out slowly. The little boy stayed inside. The woman looked more closely at the grungy man and changed expressions. It was now one of dumbfoundedness.

Stephen looked at the woman and felt a rush of tears begin to flow from his eyes. Neither spoke. Stephen and the woman stepped towards each other and embraced. Hooking on tightly with tears streaming down his face, Stephen softly spoke.

“Louisa,” he said.

Originally published in White Wall Review 6 (1982)