The Spectacle Of Mr. Morgan

I stood on the old concrete bridge above the highway, and took in the sunset with particular enjoyment. The events of the past week had been fraught with boredom and school constantly sheltered me from the nature outside. A calm walk on a Friday evening, seemed then, to be a fair reward for my efforts in school. The bridge spread in conjunction with the Greenway trail--a popular, albeit easy, path which stretched along the outskirts of town. At the time of my walking there, it was a common sight to see the numerous cherry blossoms bloom in an abundant and unified manner. A nice display to those fortunate enough to attend it at the correct time of year.

The day was quickly ending, so I pressured myself to get a move on and finish the loop that returned somewhat nearer to my home. Not doing so, would mean being late to dinner, and a consequential harsh berating from my parents, which I was not one bit fond of. The trail was hot and dusty with only a few others on it, which I enjoyed. Suddenly, I was stopped by the sight of a homeless man ahead of me, dragging sacks of garbage behind him. Although in a hurry, something compelled me to speak with the man. With protruding bones and a plodding movement, he appeared emaciated and in need of some amount of assistance--even if just a conversation. I evaluated him for a few moments, making sure he was not dangerous, and after a few tries managed to get his attention.

“Eh? What’s that?” He asked, while looking very confused at me.

“I was wondering if you needed any food? I have a chocolate bar if you’d like it.”

“Food? No I’m sorry kid, but I couldn’t ask you for that.” He replied, as though the request was a great burden.

“No it’s nothing. Really. You need food, don’t you?”

His face lightened when I insisted, and he offered for me to sit with him. I handed him the nearly full candy bar. Nearly full, as I had already eaten a few squares of it earlier that day.

“What’s your name?” He asked.

“I’m James. What’s yours?”

“I’m Andrew Morgan, kid. Oil tycoon extraordinaire. So you’re on a hike then, I imagine?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “I usually do it after my classes.”

“That’s good. That’s the right way to spend one’s time.”

“Is that why you’re out here?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

“Sort of.” He responded. “I’m just waiting for my moment in life. And what better a place to spend that time, than here?” 

I didn’t quite know what the man meant by “his moment”, but it sparked my curiosity and made me wonder what could drive someone to live such a life. I presumed it to be a choice, by how he put it.

“You’re waiting for your moment?”

“Absolutely! I’m saving my money, you see, and am eventually going to buy me a plot of land and strike rich on some black gold!”

“Black gold?”

“Oil, kid! Believe me, that’s where the money’s at. A few thousand barrels of that sweet, black juice, and I’ll be half rich.”

It was a strange scene to see him discuss his future plans with me. Especially ones so bold, and with him having so little. He scarfed down the chocolate, but did so somewhat caringly. The way you’d expect a connoisseur of tastes to indulge on his food; and yet, also a starving man. I told him I could not stay and regretfully had to leave, which, perhaps either out of loneliness or desperation, obviously saddened the man. When I further explained that I often took the trail, and would return another time to bring him food, the despair turned to unusual delight. As I left, I pondered over the man and why he was there. Such a strange idea it was, that he could be so happy and with such great ambitions, wherein he had essentially nothing and looked barely alive. He did strike me as a man with a few loose marbles rolling around, but even so, I did admire this aspect.

Fortunately, with a faster pace than normal, I managed to get home on time, and kept the encounter with the man to myself. I thought nothing more of it through the night. In the following morning, I decided to go on the trail once again. This time taking a few sandwiches and cans of fruit along, on the off chance I stumbled on the man. After about a mile from the bridge, he was in fact just where we had left off. Again dragging his bags to some unknown place. I greeted him and, after giving him the food which he graciously accepted, asked the purpose of the bags. 

“They’re lottery tickets, kid. My ticket into the rich man’s life.” He explained.

He opened the bags and showed me inside, where hundreds of the tickets lay; each of them unscratched.

“You haven’t used any of them?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” He replied. “It makes me too sad, you see? If I have all these tickets, then there is a very good chance I at least won something, and it makes me stay hopeful and excited. If I used all of them and won nothing or too little, all my eagerness would be destroyed. So, as long as I keep them with me, there’s a chance I’m holding the winning ticket!”

“But what if you are rich, sir? What if the ticket’s inside and you’d never know?”

Immediately after asking this I felt terrible. The man’s logic was so beautiful, and I seemed to be a critic bent on proving him wrong. Yet it made him raise an eyebrow, and he thought about it. He looked at the bag, then at me and asked for the date, to which I responded.

“Well,” he went on, “I am getting pretty old, I figure. My forty-second birthday was last week. I suppose I ought to be using them by now. Would you like to help me?”

We sat underneath a tree beside the nearby river and whipped the bag open. To my surprise, some of the tickets had been years old. While we scratched away, he explained how he and his brothers would love to go into town and purchase lottery tickets as kids.

“You know kid, sometimes I really miss my family.” He said melancholically.

“Where are they now?”

He said nothing, but only shook his head.

“You know,” he went on, “before my mother died a while ago, and when I was younger, she would often tell me the same story. She called it “The Spectacle Of Mr. Morgan.” It was about a honeybee in a garden, whose name--like mine--was also Andrew Morgan. Day in and day out, the bee would wander around the exact same flower. And this flower, of any, was the greatest and most brilliant spectacle in the garden, you understand, and truly the gardener’s favourite. Because it was so desired and alluring, the wasps, who were stronger, more aggressive, and less sensitive than the meek honey bee, would take over the top of the blossom. They would prevent the bee from getting the pollen and then mock him tirelessly. So what else was he to do, than to just simply wait at the bottom until they finally left and he could have a turn? One day, the bee’s turn at last came. The human gardener walked over, and plucked the most beautiful flower for his wife. When he saw the gentle bee below it, he grabbed him as well so that he could make honey for his family. The wasps were distraught, for they had nowhere else to go and yelled at the small bee, Andrew. The gardener set him in a honeycomb nest on his newly-built porch, and gave him all the food and commodities he could ever want from then on.”

I could tell the immense sadness the man felt, even if he didn’t outwardly express it. To distract his mind, I showed him a ticket.

“You got a winner!”

“Three bucks, huh? Will you look at that. Good job James! Seven hundred thousand more of those, and we’ll be well on our way to an oil field!”

Even being the small amount of money it was, I was happy at the joy it brought him. We ended up exhausting the bags of tickets, and Andrew managed to take roughly eighty dollars from it--which was not bad for being homeless and all. Seeing as I was already planning on walking into town after I finished my hike, he decided to accompany me, cash in the tickets, and purchase some food. When the cash fell into his hand, tears immediately began to run down his face. He explained it had been years since he’d been in the city, and even longer since he’d bought food for himself.

I chose to separate from him after this, and return home; leaving him to savor his groceries in peace. He thanked me a few times beforehand, and I asked if we would meet again at the usual spot the next day, which he agreed to.

That next day, I went into town before going on the trail. Knowing how moved Andrew was of the inner-city and money, I felt it best to pick him up an application from a nearby deli. The kind of store where he could smell delicious scents on the daily, and never have to go hungry. I then went and bought him a comb, some new clothes, and a new lottery ticket. It was a belated birthday gift I figured, and they were items he could very much do a lot with. Upon presenting him with them, he instantly became exhilarated and hugged me. Although, in regard to the job application, he seemed unsure.

“I haven’t ever worked before. Except when I was younger, and worked as a wrangler on my uncle’s ranch.”

“I know it’s new Andrew, but you have to trust me. You’ll meet a lot of people doing it, and you can buy all the food you want. Even save your money to buy that oil field of yours.”

This quickly brought a smile to his face, and with some reluctance, he agreed he would do it and sign up the following day.

It was the early morning before the start of school when I went to see Andrew for the fourth time. More than anything, I was happy for him. Within the short amount of time that I’d met him, he seemed to have already been getting his life on track, and I was eager to hear of his application status. I thought about how we could be life-long friends, and perhaps, given time, he could even be the wealthy oil owner he wanted to be. These thoughts were immediately interrupted and silenced by the sight of him lying face down in the dirt halfway between our usual meeting spot.

I quickly rushed to help him, but after feeling no pulse, I sadly realized there was nothing to save. In his hand was a “Thank You” card addressed to me, describing our friendship, how he had gotten the job, and the unscratched lottery ticket I had given him only a day prior. Upon using the ticket, I saw the five identical figures align, revealing the two million dollar jackpot prize, which he would’ve never known. He was dressed neatly in the clothes I had bought him, while the wild cherry blossoms fell around us. With well-combed hair to his side and a cleaned face, it was the first time I had seen him so immaculate and gentleman-like. An outfit truly fit for the most wealthy man.