Catch A Dream

I'm not sure what made me stop at first. I never stopped for the homeless, not once. They were just a part of the scenery, another park bench, another over-full trashcan, another man with a scraggly beard or woman with baggy clothes and half starved children. I don't know what I saw in that same change can that everyone else sported. Maybe it was the Nikes next to them.
Never the less I did stop on that cold May morning in our concrete jungle on Twenty-first Street by the Macy's to drop the change I had into that old baked beans can, and the man behind the beard stirred, looking up at me.
"You may keep your change Ma'am." he said, a little gruffly, then looked out at the urban street again, ignoring me completely.
"I'm sorry?" I asked, affronted. "I'm trying to help." I reached down, a little angry with him, a little embarrassed at myself, and snatched my change away.
"No harm meant Ma'am." he replied. "I just ain't looking for handouts."
I knew arguing would get me nowhere. Besides, I wore a suit and had clean nails, and worked for one of the best firms in the city, and he had on crusted brown pants and a jacket riddled with stains from I didn't want to know what, and probably made a living collecting cans from local trash bins. Albeit he was cleaner than most, and his beard looked to have been recently trimmed before it grew scraggly.
"You may be new to this, Sir, but let me assure you, you cannot be too proud." I told him coldly.
"I am not after pride either." he said softly. "I'm aiming to catch a dream."
I took a step back, staring at him as if he were crazy. Of course, he was. Days on the street had addled his brain. Catch a dream? Impossible.
"I see that look in your eyes, Ma'am." he said, turning to look at me. "Don't judge me. People toss dreams away every day. Then they teach their children to, and their children teach theirs, and so on and so forth. But I aim to catch me one of them discarded dreams. Maybe it'll be a good one. I'll be an astronaut, or a racecar driver. Or I may even travel the world. Wouldn't that be grand?"
He grinned at me, showing his teeth, white as the day he was born.
"Sir, what you look for is impossible unless you get yourself some help." I stated firmly. "Now, there's a homeless shelter right down on Eighteenth Street. I'm sure you'll see it-"
"No." he cut me off. "I'm fixing to catch a dream right here. You'll see."
He looked at his hands, worn and worked as if he used them a lot in his life. "I've held world's in these hands. I've used them for the good of mankind. I've worked toward a better and brighter future. And what do I get? Thrown out, like yesterday's trash and left to rot with the rest of the mess. As if I don't matter as much as you. What are you, a lawyer?"
"Well. Not that it matters, but no. I'm a lawyer's receptionist." I said, unsure why I defended myself to this man.
"Ah, but did you always want to be? Receptionist sounds like a fallback job." He peered at me with bright green eyes, and I wondered if he had been drinking.
"Well, of course not. I wanted to be a.." I stopped myself. "I don't think it matters now. Childish dreams are just that."
"Come now.. What's your name? I'm John." He held out his hand.
Reluctantly I shook it. "Magdalene." I said, forced properness stiffening me. I almost gave him a business card, but caught myself.
"Maggie. Such a nice name." he said. "Now, Maggie. Tell me what you wanted to be when you grew up."
"I can hardly grow anymore." I snorted. "But to humor you, John, I wanted to be a cowgirl." I said. Memories flooded me of my pink cowboy hat and my first pair of boots, Grandpa had picked them out just for me. And my first ride on the big horses at his farm, not the little ponies for the babies. My eyes started to prick.
"Well, Maggie, Assistant and Receptionist. Maybe I'll be a cowboy when you come by later." With that he looked out over the street, but I knew he didn't see it. He was looking for a dream to pick up. "Have a good day."
I snorted, turning on my Prada heel, and walked away.

The nagging didn't stop, not even after lunch, and I had had my tea. I called my Grandpa after break, just to inquire as to how he was doing. He was fine, and wanted me to visit. I agreed to go and see him on my day off. My horse, Patty, was still kicking, and he informed me she was still used to break the little ones in to the bigger horses.
As the day drew to an end, I realized that I still had that yearning to camp out on my old farm, to sleep under the stars and not the helicopters, to listen to the sounds of nature, not cabs and sirens.
As I took the familiar route home, I looked for John. He was sitting in the same spot, staring at the same unfriendly street, and he smiled at me as I stepped up to him.
"Any luck?" I asked.
"Nope. My dream got snagged by a brown haired receptionist." He said. I smiled and hurried home to pack.