I was in love at the time, you know. I still am, I suppose, but that is unimportant to the story. But that is my justification for you, reader; have mercy on me for it.

In any case, I was in love. I was floating down the street in that unusual way that only people in love can really enjoy; those, and people on heroin (or so I’ve heard). The skyscrapers around me were both taller and shorter than normal: I felt both proud and humble at my fortunate circumstance. I never grew weary of thinking about her, particularly her beauty. Actually, mainly her beauty. But she had a good personality too; I promise.

So I suppose one could call it ironic (or is it coincidental?) that when I tripped I fell on a truly ugly sight: the dirtiest, filthiest, most unkempt man you could ever imagine. I usually consider myself a reasonably non-shallow person: that is to say, I can overlook many flaws in appearance and superficial character abnormalities; but this was far out of proportion to my normal senses.

Imagine, if you will, a dumpster. Then a rat in the dumpster. A dead rat. And then another rat eating the dead rat. It was somewhat like that. People say I tend to exaggerate things, but I’m not. He was a filthy piece of human meat.

So after I tripped I found myself facedown in his lap, of all places. He was sitting on the sidewalk, grave in face and stiff in stature, leaning against the wall of the bank behind him. He looked at me with blind eyes, and something akin to a smile flitted across his face, but it was gone very quickly. Something about that smile made me think it didn’t happen very often.

I attempted to scramble out his lap with some fraction of dignity and failed miserably: the patchwork nature of his clothes had ensnared me. Looking back on it, I believe also that there may have been something else holding me there, but I’d rather not question these things. So I gathered my breath and asked him to let me up.

“Not unless you listen to my story,” was his reply.

“Story?” I replied, muffled in his coat.

“Yes, story. I have a story.”

“What the hell…? Fine. I’ll listen to your stupid story. Just let me up.”

The man gathered his clothes around him and I found myself freed from his disgusting grasp. I pulled myself up and walked away.

Again, reader, please don’t judge me too harshly. I was in love, and had hardly the time to tarry around: I was off to see my fiancé, and for all I knew he could have memorized that stupid poem about the Albatross and I would have been stuck there for an hour. As I checked my watch I found I was already running slightly late. As such, I increased my pace until I turned the corner and halted suddenly.

“Holy - ” He was there. There was no mistaking him. I walked by him slowly, nearly tiptoeing, but he seemed to see me anyway. He didn’t smile this time. I turned another corner. And there he was again.

“Oh, come on!” I cried, exasperated. Somehow the creepiness of the situation was outweighed by the fact that he was starting to piss me off. I sat down next to him, boiling inside, knowing he wasn’t going to leave until I listened. I didn’t want him following me to my fiancé, in any case.

“You have come to hear my story, have you?” The man turned his eyes to me. They were dark and filmy.

“No. No, I didn’t. You followed me around. You came to tell me your story. So tell the stupid thing.” (Remember, reader, I was in love.)

The man shrugged. “Either way, I get to tell you my story. And you” – there was that weird little smile again – “must resign yourself to it.”

I did. My body slumped slightly as I sat in front and slightly off to the side of him. We must have looked a strange couple there on the sidewalk.

The man took a deep and cracking breath before he began.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” he bemoaned.

“Oh, God.” I almost left right then. I didn’t care if he followed me for days; he would give up eventually. But I didn’t, and he continued.

“I was mighty once, you know.” He sighed. “I was mightier than everyone, actually. The mightiest, I suppose.” He stopped for a moment. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Nope.”

“Okay.”

He took another long and broken breath.

“I was mighty, whether or not you believe it. I was unbeatable. I never failed at anything I attempted. People even made jokes about me and my abilities. I never failed to amaze.”

He paused for a moment again.

“Then one day,” he began slowly, “I did fail. I failed utterly and miserably. There was some trouble down at the bar. A fight was brewing – just the normal stuff, you know, nothing too exciting. But it was brewing nonetheless. At the owner’s request, we took it outside.”

Another long and creaking breath.

“So there we were, four of us against five of them. There was no doubt in my mind that we should have won that fight. But damn it all - ” He slammed the ground with his fist “ – the first step I took I fell into a pothole and twisted my ankle. I had to lay there and watch my friends get pummeled. Then they beat me up pretty good too, except I took out two of ‘em on one leg.”

Long breath.

“I was so distraught that I went home and debated suicide. I had failed, you see. It was very tragic to me, perhaps more so than the death of my puppy. That was sad too, though. But this was worse. But instead of killing myself, I gouged out my eyes and retreated to the streets to live my life in shame.

“I hope you understand my message, boy. Take it and ponder it in your heart, that you might not make the same mistake.”

Throughout all of this my emotions were strange and jumbled: probably similar to yours, reader, as I recount the tale.

“Do you understand the message, boy?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” He sighed. “Well, run along then.”

I got up slowly, heavily, then stopped. “Wait,” I said. “What is your name?”

“My name?” He thought for a moment. “Charles. Charles Norris. They used to call me Chuck, you know. Before I failed.”

“Well, goodbye then, Charles.”

I will never forget that day, or that man.

He was disgusting.