Dragonfly by Jaxn Hill

He really could have used that advice — "Get a job!" — but I never saw him too concerned about that. He seemed to prefer trying to hand out sunflower seeds to people who could have cared less. Every once in a while a kid would take a handful, but even then, you know the kid was wishing it were M & M’s.

I was there the day Maggie first passed by. She had an entourage. There must have been seven assistants flanking her, left and right, with cell phones, pagers, PDA’s. Everyone had something to remind Maggie where she was supposed to be and what she was supposed to be doing. One of those seven must have flinched because somehow a bag of sunflower seeds got shoved in Maggie’s face — the assistants had let Torstein slip through! They’d been gliding along in phalanx, but he must have weaved in between them.

It was kind of comical. When someone handed Maggie a phone, she talked. When someone handed her a PDA, she texted. When someone handed her a clipboard and a pen, she signed. When Torstein handed her the bag of sunflower seeds, she grabbed a handful. I think it was force of habit. I think these seven assistants had been programming her actions so long, she just assumed Torstein was one and did what he prompted automatically. Then — boom! She stopped. The whole phalanx stopped. She was standing there with a handful of seeds, staring at Torstein in his green coat. And I think, for her, for the first time in a long time, all her entourage disappeared. And for a minute, there was only her and Torstein.

And she put some seeds in her mouth and spit out the shells, and laughed.

It happened like that sometimes — instantaneously.

Other times ... well ... Torstein was patient.

There was this crack addict named Angel in a ratty old building on the block behind the city street where Torstein met Maggie. Angel never even looked at Torstein — she didn’t look at any men, really; they were just business to her. I doubt she even noticed when Torstein was offering her sunflower seeds. She didn’t think men gave away anything for free. But she had a kid, maybe 5 years old, Sully. Torstein would give the kid sunflower seeds, and other stuff — sandwiches. He’d tell him, “Take this home to your mom. She needs to eat.” Like crack addicts ate anything but crack. I think Sully ate all the sandwiches himself. Who could blame him? He had to be hungry.

One day Torstein took Sully into the bodega, gave him some money, and showed him how to buy bread and peanut butter and jelly and milk. Torstein told him to keep the bread and milk and jam in the fridge ... After that sometimes he’d give Sully a few bucks for groceries. Everyone thought maybe Sully was his kid. Someone even asked him. He said, “Sure he’s my kid. He’s yours, too. If his father and mother abandon him, shouldn’t we take him in?”

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