One Armed Christ

He walked towards me like a one-armed christ,

I quickly made my way inside the liquor store

before he could get to me. I looked behind the

counter and told the clerk to give me the bottle

of gin they had on sale for $5.99. He rang it

up and said, "No blue moon tonight?" I said

no. He shoved the opaque bottle into a black

bag, the calling card of any liquor store trans-

action. I resolved to give the one-armed christ

some money if he was still out there. I turned

right outside the door to get to my car, there

he was, standing against the wall. He moved

towards me with a pained sadness, his right

hand was dirty and calloused, it was a hand

that has known work, it was a hand that was

stripped of its brother too soon. It compensated

by being larger and more muscular then it

would have been otherwise. His dirty, darkened

white face was beginning to show the marks

of hardship and age. I marveled at how life

had chiseled itself so deeply into his features.

One gains a face like that only through ex

perience and suffering. I dug into my right

coat pocket and emptied it of all the loose

coins sitting there. He reached out his right

hand like one thirsty for water, like one

hungry for food. As I turned away from him

without saying a word, he nodded at me.

I wish I had stayed, I wish I had talked to

him. I wish I had asked him how he ended

up this way, I wish I had taken another

moment to show compassion. I wish I

had not left him alone in the cold darkness

of One A.M., standing outside the liquor

store. I got in the car and drove home.

I poured myself a strong gin and tonic, then

another one. Now I sit alone, thinking about

the one-armed christ. Could we have saved

each other? It's too late to know.