Early mornings the AMTRAK train makes its stop in Lamy, New Mexico. There isn't anything in Lamy but the rail station that has been there since the days of the Old West.
Station looks much the same as it did during the Civil War. Wood benches from those days still grace the inside. Electricity replaced lanterns. Modern plumbing replaced the Out House. A few hitching rails remain, but cars now replace the buckboards. Rock and sand still remain for parking. Asphalt hasn't caught up with the station yet. Probably never will.
A rail station lost in time.
I see the old man sitting on a wooden bench under a shade tree next to the rail station.
He is old. Very old. His face burnished leather wrinkles from decades in the desert sun. His eyes are but a slit against the world. His hands, gnarled like tree roots, hold tightly to a walking stick. It has worn smooth over the years by his hands and the wood is stained from decades of use.
Intuition tells me that walking stick has slung many a rattler away over the years as he walked the desert.
An old wool coat, frayed and torn in places, cover him. Only three buttons remain of the original six. His shirt is faded blue stripes without a collar. His pants, denim with holes in
the knees. His kneecaps, red from sunburn, peek through.
He is cold, even with the heat of the sun. His cowboy hat is misshapen felt. Dust and sand ground into it and cemented with old sweat. His boots are but a blur of scuffs and stitching that has failed in many places. The heels worn a little more than level with the ground.
Beside him is a leather pouch filled with shelled corn. He tosses a small handful and the pigeons scramble around his feet to eat the kernels. He smiles a crooked smile and cortles at them.
Most of his teeth are gone.
I believe the pigeons respect him. He is not a threat to them or anyone. But people make a wide path around him as they pass. They fear his poverty.
He glances at me and frowns. He's afraid of me. I am near him and he doesn't know what to do. He tries to tidy his rags of clothes, hoping I will go and sit somewhere else.
I don't. I sit beside him. He is anxious now and glombs onto his leather pouch. His right hand rides up and down on his walking stick. Pigeons take flight, aware of his fright.
From my purse I take out a smoke and offer him one. His eyes close as he shakes his head, "No." I ask again. I know he smokes. His few remaining teeth show nicotine stains.
His hand shakes as he takes one of the smokes. I offer him a light and he leans carefully up to the lighter. A cloud of smoke from his nose offers a signal of resignation that I won't be leaving any time soon.
I tell him my name. He nods understanding. Choking out he say's, "Me, Jose." I smile at him. His hand relaxes on his walking stick. He quickly draws from the cigarette.
We sit silently for a long time. He opens his pouch and throws a small handful of corn for the pigeons. I smile and lay my hand open. He cautiously lifts the pouch so that I can take a handful of corn to scatter for the birds.
His smile tore my soul when it came. I shot my own smile back at him. He nods.
We watch the sun begin to set across from the tracks. Late afternoon thermals begin and the wind catches the old man's hat. He is too old to chase it. I retreive it.
He nods a thank you. I nod a welcome.
Finally, he speaks. "Thank you for the visit, Ma'm. Mighty nice of you."
I give him a kiss on his hand while tucking a Hamilton into his pouch to find later. He feeds the birds. I reckon I can feed him this night.
My mind knows that greed sows poverty and I see it spreading around me. I leave the old man unto his dreams, if any are left.
Left my smokes and lighter behind too. A small pleasure for him during another lonely night he'll face.
As I drive away I know I shall never see Jose again. Such is the way of things.