The Apple

Winter came to New York with a fury. Icy winds surged through canyons of concrete and steel like floodwaters, the sounds of the city drowning beneath their bitter cries. Empty streets filled with ice and drifting snow, blinding white against the dark and filthy asphalt.

A man walked along the sidewalk, tattered collar turned up against the cold, chin buried in his chest, back bent against the wind, feet dragging through the thick brown slush that soaked his shoes and freezing feet, hands buried deep in his pockets, fingers searching for scraps of warmth. He’d have made a miserable sight, had anyone seen him.

Stumbling as he stepped off the curb, he went down hard on his knees, feeling the familiar tear of flesh and fabric. His face twisted momentarily in pain and a sharp breath escaped through his clenched teeth. Then the cold seeped through him and met the pain halfway, pushing it back into some numb corner of his brain to be remembered later. Picking himself up, he walked to a nearby wooden bench. He sat there for what seemed a long while, his head tipped back, staring blankly at the framework of the green awning overhead. He made out the faint impression of letters on the back of the canvas.

“Grocery”, he read quietly to himself. Turning around, he noticed for the first time that he was sitting in front of a small store. A neon sign that read “Open!” hung in the frosted windows, through which he could see the blurred outline of a man behind the checkout counter and several customers milling about in the narrow aisles. He stood quickly and moved towards the door. Suddenly lightheaded, he braced his raw palm against the brick that lined the big front window, steadying himself and waiting for the fog to lift before he reached for the door handle…

The door swung wide with a loud clattering of bells and a howl of wind. The heavyset man behind the counter looked up from his newspaper with a curious expression that turned quickly into a scowl. The gaunt man that had just blown in from the cold was clearly not here to buy anything. His clothes were little more than rags, his pants torn and his jacket full of moth-eaten holes. His expression was a familiar one to the shopkeeper; it was the same expression of terrible hunger, of wide-eyed suffering and misery that he had seen on the faces of so many others on the streets. But, he noted, it was an honest face, if there is such a thing, and he decided with a sigh that it couldn’t hurt to let the guy warm himself up. It wouldn’t be human to turn anyone out on a day like this. He went back to reading the paper and ignored the man…

The little shop was warm and bright, a sharp contrast to the world just beyond the door. Shelves lined the walls, filled with neatly arranged cans, bags and boxes. Tightly spaced tables throughout the shop were stacked high with loaves of bread, wedges of cheese, pyramids of cans and baskets of dry beans and cereals. For some time he simply stood there, feeling the warmth work its way through him. After a minute or two he felt the pain in his knees again as they thawed and the blood began to flow; but just to feel anything beside the bitter numbness of the cold was a welcome relief. Taking a deep breath, he filled himself with the aroma of it all, and in his stomach he felt knots begin to tie themselves anew. The cold may have faded from his bones, but the hunger was still there, deep in his gut.

His eyes continued to wander about the shop until they came to rest on a table in the far corner, just below a rack of summer sausages that hung from the ceiling. A large basket sat on the checkered tablecloth, filled to overflowing with apples. Moving closer, he picked one up and looked longingly at it. It was perfectly shaped and beautifully ruby red, bigger than his clenched fist and polished to a wonderful shine. The knots in his stomach tightened a bit more, growling lowly in frustration.

Glancing about, he noted that no one had bothered to look his way. The man behind the counter still had his bulbous nose buried in the paper and the customers were all busily filling their shopping bags. What a simple thing it would be to slip the apple into his pocket and walk out the door. No one would notice; no one would care. No one would miss a single apple. What could it cost, a few cents? Why, a man like the grocer probably left that much behind in his pockets every time he had his wash done.

Looking at the apple again, he caught a glimpse of his face dully reflected in the polished wax, stretched and distorted, cheeks hollowed out by shadows, eyes dark and sunken, desperation written in its lines. It was not a face he recognized as his own. It terrified him, and for a moment the hunger was forgotten. With a start, he tore his eyes from the apple and shook his head. Carefully, he put the apple back in its place in the basket. Drawing himself up to his full height, he took off his battered hat with one hand and ran his fingers through his hair with the other, sighing heavily. He turned and walked towards the front of the shop…

The door opened with a loud clatter and a howl. The shopkeeper looked up from his paper to see the gaunt man standing tall in the doorway, holding the edge of the door to steady himself against the blast of cold air that rose to meet him. Steeling himself, he leaned into the wind, pulling the door shut as he left. Walking away down the lonely street, his dark frame grew small and faint, like a shadow beneath the ice, and then disappeared entirely, swallowed up by the storm.