Free Write The Man in the Window

 

Today's free write was triggered by a man in our village who sells used books on marché days from his living room window. We sat in our favorite café. Sherlock, our dog, kept his nose inches from the cat door leading into the café. Rick had hot chocolate and I sipped Yorkshire tea as we wrote for ten minutes.

Rick's Free Write

The people streaming by on marché day were his entertainment, twice weekly, his open window facing the alley, his big-screen TV and his meager income.

MS had long ago restricted his movement and thus his income, so he lived on a paltry pension from the French government, barely enough for a 10x8 studio. 

But at least it was ground floor so he could get to the street with his wheeled walker -- to the grocery, the boulangerie, the dechet bins in the square.

On marché days on the ledge of his alley-side window he could painstakingly line up second-hand books, mostly français but a few in English that tourists had donated when their beach read was over. Plus a small collection of DVDs.

He'd charge two or three Euros. Some buyers would give him a little more. Regardless, he was always smiling gratefully, perhaps thinking the sale meant tomorrow's croissant.

At the end of the marché he would bring in the unsold, and perhaps a couple of donated books and DVDs, close the window and wait for the next. 

D-L's Free Write

It wasn't fair, Pierre thought. 

Yes, he had a full head of hair when most of his friends's heads were billiard ball like. He would change his hair to be able to walk without his dammed walker.

Each step still hurt as he made his way across the tiled plaza.

He hadn't died in the accident, but it took years to reach this stage.

He hadn't just lost the ability to walk by himself, even with crutches. He needed the walker.

His wife had left him. Maybe because his mistress had been driving his Porsche in the accident. His kids sided with her.

Disability insurance left him with small monthly payment enough to rent this ground level flat.

He supplemented his income selling books out his living room window, French, mostly to tourists, the same tourists who gave him books to sell because they didn't want to carry them home.

The Plaza's tiles were uneven pushed up by roots from surrounding trees. It slowed his progress.

No, this was not the life he had pictured when he was a young successful banker. At least it was life but he would trade his hair to walk unaided.