The Professor

            The professor enjoyed his coffee black, hot out of the street vendor’s percolator, and bitter.  Every morning, he sat with his paper, watching the students pass hurrying off to class in every direction, never minding his quiet presence.  Every afternoon he took his lunch while reading great literature, a paper-wrapped sandwich in one hand, and the book in the other. The students didn’t mind him sitting there, watching them from time to time; they rarely bothered taking the time to notice him.

            The professor always did what he could to look his best.  In the cooler months, he was always in his best jacket; in the summer, he was never without at least a vest and tie. When he knew no one was looking, he’d comb his hair and beard, preening every chance he got.

            The professor was a quiet soul. He brushed off cell phone conversations and impertinent insults, and cared little for the fashion of the moment or the newest blockbuster movie.  He never looked stressed, never seemed to falter, and never broke down. He just watched the world with the wise eyes of someone who had seen it all, and sat with his coffee and paper or sandwich and book while the world insisted on changing around him.

            The professor was a wise old sage.  He quietly lectured the students about life, and surprised a few with his rare, but poignant exclamations of great importance. “Peace abroad will only mean as much to us as it does in our homes!”  “If Christ died for your soul, then John Lennon died for your culture.” “It is not what your country can do for you, but who you didn’t bother to vote for!” Mostly, the students didn’t bother to end their conversations when he spoke. The ones who heard were afraid to listen. He never punished them for not caring, not heeding him. Time, after all, would reveal the truly gifted student.

            One morning when the professor had accidentally fallen asleep sitting up, coffee and paper in hand, a police officer prodded him with his foot.

            “Hey you, you can’t sleep here. The shelter is two blocks down, and you have to be on this corner?”

            I watched while the professor set down the coffee, straightened the tie that hung around his bare neck, brushed off the vest that hung around his sun-aged, leathery dark skin, pretended to flatten the shirt he wasn’t wearing underneath both, folded up the garbage-stained paper he’d fished out that morning, gathered the few dollars in change from the container lying at his feet, slung a beat up knapsack over his shoulder, retrieved his now cold 25 cent coffee, and followed the policeman without a word.  His book was on the ground still, and I hurried to grab it and return it to him.

            “You forgot this!” I said, quickly catching up to the pair.

            The professor turned around and looked me in the eye for the first time. Maybe it was the first time one of his students had ever bothered to approach him. He looked at the book, then back at me. Without a word, he took the book and held it tightly to his chest.  The realization that he might have been parted with it forever left a trace of fear in his quiet eyes.

            “Come on,” the policeman huffed, shooting me a look that told me that it wasn’t in my best interest to converse with the homeless. They turned and crossed the street together, leaving me to be jostled by my fellow students on the streets of New York City.

            No one noticed that the professor had retired. They all continued on to their classes, most without ever having heard a word he said. And I wondered what I could have learned from the homeless man in the tie and vest if I hadn’t been afraid to listen.