Brown

Today is brown, I decide. Faded, dark brown. Frayed brown. Muddied. Humble. Just like my coat.
I'm quite sad to be tossing it, really. I know I shouldn't be; the thing's an absolute disgrace.
But all the same.
I am.
The seams are pulling apart; the elbows are beaten down; the zipper smiles toothlessly up at me each time I go to put it on.
People are constantly urging me to buy a new one; anything would be better than this poor excuse for a coat. Ma was whining at me just the other day about it.
"Jimmy, when in God's name are you goin' to get yourself a proper coat?"
My ma has the best voice. It has this real southern drawl to it. Breathy and soft, like feathers.
"I'm gettin' around to it, Ma. Don't get your panties in a bunch, all right?"
"Don't sass me, boy." That's a warning. Except from Ma, it's empty. Just words. "I'm just tryin' to help you out. You'll catch your death in this weather if you keep goin' out in that ratty ol' thing."
"All right, Ma, all right. Sorry. I promise I'll have one by next week, okay? Michael says he knows a real cheap place off of Main Street."
"Okay, honey." See that term of endearment? She'd softened up. "You make sure you do. I'll see y'soon, Jimmy."
"Bye, Ma."
I swear it, she can make me do just about anything.
But I'm having second thoughts about giving it up entirely. Maybe I'll just keep it in the closet—
No. That's how those oddballs on the TV start out. Those shows you hear folks talking about over lunch. They go into these sunken in houses with tunnels carved into them. Everything imaginable is packed in like sardines, threatening to topple any moment. Then they find the owners, blind and starved, dead in the center of it.
The things people do.
I shudder.
I try to disregard all the great things I'd done in that coat. Surviving the first three years of college. Taking an unplanned road trip to Canada. Winning that journalism award with an entry I'd written not an hour before the deadline on a snowy night in a broken-down "car." I chuckle at the memories.
Then I scoff. How can you have a sentimental attachment to a coat?
Exactly.
Without a second thought, I stuff it into a grocery bag. It makes one last pathetic cry before I pull the ends shut. I pause for a brief moment, wondering what I should do with it. Thrift it? Goodwill? Trash it? No, I decide, it's not worth anyone's money.
The cold slaps me in the face as I step outside, works its way through the fibers in my clothes. You need to get that coat now, I tell myself.
I can only agree.
I lift the lid of the frozen trash bin and reluctantly let go of the plastic bag.
***
Bernard's loud coughing ricocheted off the sloping walls of the overpass. A cold dampness had blanketed the outskirts of the city that day, only worsening the state of the beggar's illness. The streets had been washed out with a steady, icy rain not two days ago.
Bernard lay in a fetid bit of pooled rain water, curled on his side and trying desperately to control the shudders that wracked his body. The thin layers of clothing he had managed to gather for the winter months did nothing to stop the water from seeping to his skin.
The fit continued until he lashed out unexpectedly at the wall and began tumbling down the slope. He lay at the bottom, closing his eyes and taking in a deep, shuddering breath. A car passed, the driver hardly glancing at the dying man on the curb. The exhaust was trapped beneath the bridge. It crawled into his aching lungs. When the coughing subsided once more, Bernard rose to his hands and knees, his strength falling out of him as he did so. Then to his shifting feet. He stumbles wearily, aimlessly down the sidewalk.
Death shadowed his footprints.
Halfway down the block.
He fell.
A metal trash bin toppled over him, its contents spilling out.
A plastic bag crept beside his head. He tried to sit up and failed. Death stared down at him, counting the minutes. Waiting. The sickly fingers felt the lifeless plastic; they groped at the tied ends. He carefully pulls the contents from the bag.
Something sparked in his vacant eyes. He fingered the worn fabric; the jagged zipper; the torn pockets. With difficulty, he slides into his prize. It's perhaps the most comforting thing he's layered onto his body.
As he continued on down the street, the shivers lessened. The coughs came less frequently, though still with the same force. Death slunk away.
***
I step out onto the front porch, a questioning look on my face. Garbage is strewn guiltily across my front lawn. I look around for the potential perpetrator. A hunched form is staggering down the sidewalk.
And it's wearing my coat.
"Hey!" I call out.
The figure keeps going at first, and then stops. Half turns.
From where I am I can make out torn, muddied shirts beneath the unzipped coat. The face is grungy. Peppery hairs grow on his face. Those on his head are tangled up with leaves and matted down closely to his skull. His cheeks are sunken in. The pants on his legs are holed and battered. On his feet are things that shouldn't even be able to pass for shoes.
The man reeks of helplessness.
He stands there, looking at me expectantly.
I smile sadly and wave my hand for him to go on. He does, gratefully.
I figure I'd rather him have it; better on his back than in a landfill.
As I stoop down to pick up the littered garbage bags, I briefly realize something.
Some things can change our lives.
Some people can change our lives.
Sometimes we can change other peoples' lives.
And sometime we don't even know it.