San Francisco—1957
Max strolled along the street, glancing at the shops as he passed them. They were mainly for women's clothing; slim mannequins twisted their plastic bodies to show off the expensive clothes they wore. A cold wind began to blow and Max pulled his jacket tighter around him as he continued on past the shops. It was a typical winter day in San Francisco. People bustled around him, barely looking up as they hurried to get out of the cold. Max heard a call, just discernible above the noise of the wind.
"Papers for sale! Ten cents a paper! Papers for sale!..."
Max continued on, following the crowd ahead of him as it rounded a corner to the next street. Suddenly, a strong gust of wind tore along the sidewalk, knocking people's hats off and pushing everyone momentarily off-balance. Max felt something hit his leg. He looked down and picked up the black and white newspaper that had been moulded to the shape of his leg by the wind. He straightened up, holding the paper.
"Hey, that's mine! Oh… sorry, sir," said a voice.
Max looked up. A young boy of about 15 stood in front of him, his blue eyes apologetic. He wore a checked tweed cap, and his straight brown hair underneath was ruffled around his hollow cheek bones. His patched coat was an ugly shade of green-brown and looked about two sizes too big for him. His lips were tinged blue, not matching the pink of his nose and cheeks. Although he was reed-thin, Max could see he was a handsome lad.
"That's OK, kid. Here, I'll buy it," said Max, reaching into his pocket and handing the boy 50 cents.
"Sir, it's only ten cents..." the boy protested.
Max marvelled at the kid's honesty—most people in his position would take the money, no questions asked. But he waved his hand dismissively.
"Take it, son. You look like you need it more than I do," he said, thrusting the money into the boy's gloved hands. The boy stared at the coins, his blue eyes wide and disbelieving.
Max smiled to himself and, tucking the newspaper under his arm, began to move past the boy.
"Thank you, sir!" called the boy, recovering himself.
Max turned and waved in acknowledgement, and continued on down the sidewalk as the boy returned to his stack of newspapers. Max felt warm inside, thinking the boy might get a decent meal that night, but as he turned into his street the warmth began to disappear. Sure—the kid was fine for that night, but what about tomorrow, or next week, or next month? But maybe, thought Max as he trudged up the steps to his front door, he was just helping his father out by earning some extra dough—maybe his father had a poor income. Max felt a little comforted by this idea, but as he turned his key in the lock, he still couldn't shake the boy from his thoughts.
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He saw the boy every day for the rest of that week, always selling the papers, calling loudly above the whistling wind. Max bought a paper every time he saw the boy, and every time the boy thanked him with honest gratitude.
The next week, the boy had a red scarf wrapped around his thin neck. Max grinned at him as he bought the paper that morning, glad that he'd used the money to keep himself warm. But still, Max wasn't satisfied. Something was missing but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. That evening he walked home with his hands buried deep in his pockets, thinking hard. By the time he'd reached the front door, a plan had begun to form in his mind…
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