Tram Station

He hungrily tore away at a ham and cheese sandwich. The bread was tough and the meat and cheese cheap, because restaurants were expensive in this area. A tram, heading in the direction he wanted to eventually go, gave a metallic grind and stopped. The doors opened with a hiss of air.  He ignored it and ate a few chips from a foil bag between his legs, and ate more of the sandwich. The wind moaned loudly, rattling the glass surrounding the bench he sat on, and he tightened his blue scarf tighter around his neck. He looked left and right, watching people walk along the narrow sidewalks and the roads along the canals of Amsterdam. The trams moved, uninhibited. The streets were dark with rain water and dotted in puddles. The man smiled and ate the rest of his sandwich, watching people in thick coats and scarfs and boots leap from side to side to avoid puddles.

            Horns from cars and trams screeched loudly. He brought bread and cheese from his leather bag beside him, and made himself another sandwich, piled with the same white, unknown cheese. He sat alone on the bench in the middle of the street, a little sliver island, with trams rushing past on both sides every few minutes. The clouds rolled like heavy grey blankets, wringing out a few drops of rain, which fell to the young man’s feet. A square to his left was full of blooming tulips, and they wiped about in the wind and caught the man’s attention.

            As a tram stopped, boarded, and moved, a man stepped across the tracks towards the station at the center of the road. The young man did not notice him, and threw a piece of crust to fearless pigeon. He was busy watching the tall, narrow buildings, hundreds of years old, with unique curved molding, painted a motley array of colors. Some were set very close to the rippling canal, and all at least three stories tall. All of this was new to him. The man who crossed the street wore a long tan trench coat, a grey stocking cap, and had a grizzled beard down to his chest and beady black eyes were attracted to the young man. His hands were empty except for a poorly rolled cigarette. The smoke from it churned in the wind. He took a few hesitant steps towards the young man, looking around as he did. In a cracked, used voice, he spoke against the wind.

            “’Excuse me, I just need fifty cents, could you help me?” The young man turned to face him, his mouth full of bread and cheese. It was hard to feel sorry for his tar-lined voice, but the sight of him made even the clouds tear up.

            “Sorry, I don’t have any money,” the young man said, trying to fake sympathy in his voice, repeating what he had been told to. The man puffed his cigarette, looking at the sandwich in the young man’s hands.

“Just fifty cents. I need something to eat, I haven’t eaten in a day,” he said, showering him in smoke.

“Sorry, I don’t have anything.” The young man shifted where he sat, turning away from the man. As he did, the jingle of the plethora of coins in his pockets could be heard against the wind. The old man looked at the source of the noise, and the young man froze. There was a pause where neither of them moved. He swallowed his bite of sandwich and shoved the rest of it in his bag. Quickly brushing crumbs off of him, he stood up and walked across the street quickly, cutting off a tram, which slammed its brakes. He didn’t wave to apologize, but kept going, and turned down Keizersgracht Street, walking along the canal. Boats lined the shallow canal, and they bobbed in the wind. Blinds were closed over the windows on his left, and he longed just to slip behind one of them. He turned around, and the older man was walking down the street behind him. He panicked, and turned into the nearest alleyway. Caught off guard, he slipped on a slick piece of cobblestone, slamming his head into a gutter and crashing into a pile of wet crates. He could feel the blood on his head and the scraps from the wood on his face. People walked by him, speaking in Dutch, but he assumed they were insults and jeers.

            He laid there for a few moments, heaving. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, turning him over. It was the old man from the station. His face was wrinkled like a shirt tossed aside and forgotten. The young man wanted to run, but his head was rushing and he could hardly focus. He felt something dabbing at the blood on his forehead, and on his cheeks. The old man pulled a few splinters from his face, and the young man winced, but allowed it to happen. Rain drops fell into his eyes, and he was forced to shut them. He felt cold water on the wounds on his face, and it eased the burning pain. The whole time, they said nothing.

            Finally, the young man felt the burning sensation of whiskey on his lips, as the old man lifted his head and poured the concoction down his throat, warming him. Then it was still. The young man slowly sat up, gingerly, so he wouldn’t become faint and pass out. When he gathered his focus, he looked around the wet, stone alley, laying in the remains of the crates, his back wet, and people staring at him as they walked down the canal street. The old man was gone.