NO one ever paid attention to the man with the drooping eye. He moved swiftly through the London streets like a stale wind. Sometimes he mumbled, and sometimes he broke into a dance that resembled a fit of electrocution. He smelled oddly sweet and moldy, and his skin was like parched paper. These traits were fine for a book but not so much for a human.
So of course people avoided him. On a gray August morning when he stopped short on a crowded sidewalk, they walked politely around the man as if he didn’t exist. They kept their eyes on their phones. They minded their own business.
Hearing a noise, the old man looked up. Even in the summer he felt cold, always cold, and he pulled his thin black raincoat tight around him. He’d lost the belt years ago, a great disadvantage on a damp, cloudy day. He trained his good eye on a neon orange-and-black jet emerging from the clouds. His sight was weak, but he could make out the name emblazoned on the tail.
TILT.
It was a strange name for a jet, to be sure. But that did not explain the old man’s reaction.
“By the ghost of Gaston!” he squealed. Then he leaped into a complex little jig, his legs twirling and twiddling like rubber sticks. It would have been an impressive display, but as no one was watching, there was no one to be impressed.
Fishing a flip phone from his pocket, he tapped out a message. They’re here.
The answer came back immediately. Yes, I noticed. Not modest, are they?
With a grin, the old man shoved the phone back into his pocket. As he shuffled quickly through the grim and growing crowd, he smiled. He was in a good mood now, so he muttered merry greetings.
But he got no replies.
No one ever paid attention to the man with the drooping eye.