Turn the page and see what happens next...

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He sits in the brown folding chair, blue work pants hiding the tongues of his dark brown work boots. He's leaned forward, flipping through today's section of the paper. The arts, sports, and science sections are underneath one rubber footed leg of the chair, holding them tight to the worn concrete.

Behind him, underneath the raised metal security door, is a dark, deceptively deep area. Somewhere for storing something. Somewhere for selling something. But even with the sun high up in the sky, all a passersby can see is shadow.

He comes to this spot every morning, paper and coffee in hand. He bends down and unlocks the door, letting it slide up effortlessly. As the sound of the wheels on their rails dies down he grabs the chair which is always propped against the inside wall and has a seat outside.

He raises his head with a nod and a smile every now and then, greeting the strangers he knows by name. They tip their hats and keep on walking as he hunches forward a sifts through the next article, taking in all the news that's fit to print. He sips from his cup, raising it to his big, brown lips, and smiles as he sets it back down, flicking the paper against the wind as he does so.

And although there's no goods behind him to sell, although there are no customers pouring in through the gigantic doorway, he continues this ritual. Sipping, smiling, reading along with the passage of time. At 5 he folds his paper up and collects his coffee cup. He leans his chair back against the wall and closes up shop, letting the giant metal door down gently, and double checking that he has it locked before he slips the brass key back into his trouser pocket.

Rain, sleet, or snow, he kept to his routine.

When the nor'easters blow in, he still opens the door, and sets the chair up just a few feet inside. No matter how much the streets flood and overflow, or how hard the traffic hits the puddles, he gets only the faintest mists on his leather boots. And he sits there, with a perfectly crisp paper in his hands, coffee by his feet. He sips, reads, nods and smiles.

And no matter the holiday, no matter the parades, no matter what businesses are closed, he sits, sips, reads, nods and smiles. It takes a certain kind of man to have that sort of dedication to a shop of shadows. But that smile never changes. The crease running from knee to ankle never falters. The brown and tan laces that peek out from under the hem are always perfectly in place, tied to perfection I'm sure. But I'm not one to go lifting up people's clothing for inspection.

He's kind of a friendly reminder. Not inspiring perhaps, but not sad either. He has a job to do and he does it very well. He's a kind of rock around which all the pedestrians acknowledge and change their tide for. And no matter the flow, he never erodes, never changes.

Just sits. Sips. Reads. Nods. Smiles.

I envy that kind of man. To have that kind of contentment. That self-assured presence among the populace.

I tip my hat to him.