A singular penny fell from an outstretched hand, twisting in midair, once, twice, before finally landing with a plink in the small coin pile that lay hopefully on the edge of the weather worn cardboard. Jones looked up at the noise, expectation tightening his jaw and adding a hard edge to his normally soft eye. The man didn’t acknowledge him, instead keeping his gaze on the meager pile of money that made up Jones’ life savings, as if it was somehow easier to look at that than the lowlife that haunted his city.
Jones cleared his throat, bringing the man's eyes to him and his rough appearance, though he shied away from eye contact, looking instead to where Jones gestured. There pieces of cardboard lay, sculpted roughly into various shapes and objects. He smiled faintly at a doll sitting towards the middle of the stash, thinking of his daughter back home - she was young and at that age where all she could think about was dolls. Whenever he gave in to her incessant begging and bought her one, no matter the quality, her blue eyes would crinkle, and all of her teeth would show in a way they so rarely did.
The man jerked back into reality by Jones clearing his throat once again and he flushed, embarrassed to be caught staring at something so crudely designed. He quickly glanced over his shoulder, checking no one was watching him, then gestured to the doll, pulling out his purse. Jones hesitated, wondering how much to ask for, before holding up four f ingers. The man in front of him pulled out four pounds and hurriedly dropped them into Jones’ outstretched fingers, before picking up the figurine by the neck and hurrying off. He left, casting nervous glances behind him, until he was well away from the man's figures, and even further from the man himself.
Just out of sight of the street light stood a man. He was old and greying physically, but that couldn’t be further from the truth for his soul. He watched as Jones began to pack away his various sculptures, hiding his most treasured objects from the worst parts of the world. Hiding what had slowly become parts of Jones, from the drunk vandals that would squash his life's work without a second thought. He mused over the old saying, one man's trash is another man's treasure, realising that Jones’ art was a sort of treasure, though not to everyone, and with that realization he sauntered over, not quite having the money to help, but having words of wisdom instead to change a life.
Jones looked up at his approach, eyes weary, he knew how people saw him: nothing more than a burden of society that was no better than the rats in the sewers. It was rare for him to be treated with kindness, and rarer still to get any sort of money. In fact the money he got today was the most he’d gotten in well over a week. The man in front of him bent down and gently picked up a figurine of a lizard, gazing down at it as if it might come alive at any moment, and he wanted to be there for its first moments. Jones saw the reverence in his eye, and hesitated, wary but curious. He gestured weightily at the old man to keep the lizard earning him a wide smile and a word of gratitude. Jones expected him to take his leave, but instead he sat down, starting up a conversation, the words that fell from his mouth ripe with with knowledge and experience. Jones was drawn to his words like a moth to the flame, and when he eventually recommended a spot to move with more foot traffic, Jones didn’t hesitate to pack up his life and move on a whim.
Rubie's eyes followed the unfamiliar man as he ambled towards the city centre. He carried a box in front of him, holding it as if it was the most valuable thing in the world - and perhaps it was to him. But to her it looked like trash. Curiosity sunk claws into her chest and urged her to slink through the city after him. The man seemed to be looking for something, glancing up at street signs and around to the shops around him. Eventually he either found what he was looking for or gave up, plopping down on the side of a street - the same street Rubie usually squatted on. She growled under her breath and stepped forwards, catching the look in his eye as she did so.
Hope lit his face up, as if he were a young boy, adding a sparkle to his iris, and that was enough to make her hesitate, to not kick him out of her street.
Maybe there was something to his faith, Rubie thought, and she wanted to be there if there was.
His hope was contagious, taking over Rubie like the plague until she found herself watching him day and night. Him and the curiosities he sold, so much like her own had been. It was this that made her eventually talk to him, sitting down beside him and basking in his presence. Rubie said a few words of greeting, which he echoed, and then silence. It was both unsure and awkward, weaving around them like fog, until Rubie was too choked up to say more. Instead she stared down at her hands, covered in scars and defects, twin to the ones that marred her soul. The stranger reached over and grabbed them, a question in his eyes. She knew the question but she didn’t know the soft concern accompanying it, used instead to the disgust and horror most people displayed.
Rubie watched Jones walk over to a tree, running his hands along the smooth bark. Hesitant to spoil its beautiful surface, to make it grotesque, yet eventually he swung, ripping into a branch and slicing it clean off. Taking for his own gain. He moved to another tree, taking another branch, and she realised. He took what he wanted without mutilating the trees, letting them become beautiful again. He was truly beautiful, inside and out.
He reminded her of herself when she was younger. She had always loved the art of woodwork, yet had such fear of permanently hurting the trees. She loved and nurtured all the flora she took from, giving them extra nutrients and help in exchange for their arms, so when they took her hands, she felt it a fair punishment and didn’t fight, surrendering to the tree's retribution.
* * *
From a distance it was hard to tell what Jones was doing. He seemed to be hunched over a piece of wood, a sharp knife in hand. Following another woman's commands, and as the lady on the other side of the road strolled closer, she saw they were carving into the wood the shape of a box. It was ugly and deformed, but Jones had pride shining clearly in his eyes. The women next to him seemed to mirror this, with a faint amount of jealousy, a look the Lady saw in herself all too much.
It was messy and it was crude, but it was his. Jones felt an unfamiliar emotion tighten his throat and make his eyes shimmer. He set it down in front of him, alongside the other objects he had spent his whole life making, yet this was in a different league. It was indestructible, unlike the sad cardboard figurines which would easily destroy in a flash rain, yet they were still his creations, and he treasured them all equally, the cardboard ones especially for what they did for him in his darkest time.
Rubie looked at his work, a near replica of her own when she first started and smiled freely. Letting go of her jealousy and regret, and choosing to be proud that he was following her path, hopefully to a better end. She glanced up at Jones and felt the resentment of his perfection drain out, instead letting herself be flooded with love and hope. Hope that whatever his story, she would be part of it, by his side. She looked at the man she had hardly known for two months, but whose life she had changed, and thought for the first time, maybe she was perfect inside and out despite her ugliness, just like the box, and just like the cardboard figurines he had started with.
The lady stepped closer and the pair looked up, tenderness shining in both of their eyes. She pulled out her money pouch and gestured to the box. She had no idea why she wanted it, what about it drew her in, it was certainly nothing special, but her son would love it. He had a penchant for that which was different and handmade. She could imagine his reaction to it immediately and making her smile and crinkle her eyes slightly. Jones held up 4 fingers, with a matching smile, and she dropped in the four pounds, all landing one after another with a satisfied clink, as they marked the start of a new pile in the folds of his blanket.
