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The beggar stood by the side of the road every single morning from 8:30 am to 9:30 am, in all kinds of weather. I tested his timing once, by stepping out on to G Street from the Metro Station at exactly 8:25 am. Sure enough he appeared at 8:30, in his frayed black coat and thick old hat, walking slowly up the street. The next day I arrived at 9:30 am, just in time to see him walking away from near the large garbage can where he stood for exactly one hour. I did this for a week, alternating between the times and he never failed to show up at 8:30 am and leave after an hour.

I was struck by how much he looked like Aubrey, my boss at work. Three months later, Aubrey resigned after thirteen years over a disagreement with his superiors, declaring he had accepted a position as a Systems Analyst, and 'of course the pay is better', he said to me before he left. But the beggar still stood on G Street.

I cross the street nowadays, to walk past him on my way to work because I miss Aubrey and the resemblance gives me comfort. He stands slightly hunched, the tattered black overcoat bunched around him and his tin can cupped in both hands. He wishes the passerby good morning.

He doesn't ask for money. He doesn't say 'Can you spare me a quarter Mister?' and so doesn't incur the wrath or disgust of the office-going folk. He only wishes us good morning and something about his greeting and the wave of his chapped hand makes us want to wish him back, maybe toss him a coin or two. Sometimes the men offer him a cigarette if it's cold or if they happen to be smoking at that time. He accepts and pulls one out from the outstretched pack with chapped fingers. I notice one morning that he refuses a cigarette though the wind is cold and blows his coat around his thick-soled black shoes. ' Sorry sir, Marlboro's not my brand' he says with an apologetic smile. The man is surprised but gives him a coin instead and walks away. The coins make a loud sound as they fall into his tin can and this makes him smile as if he can hear his riches growing. People stop to talk to him, especially elderly women. Their eyes shine with pity but he doesn't seem to mind. Most of these women and the men too are regulars I know, I've seen them on the same train with me, riding to work and they get off at the same stop in Union Station to walk down G street to one of the tall office buildings downtown. I feel a curious bond with these commuters because we all know the beggar.

Mostly though, the beggar has only the pigeons for company. They flock around him and fight for the large pieces of white bread he throws out. The pigeons are many, they flock on the footpath and spill out onto the road. The elderly women look alarmed and I too wonder if the poor birds risk being run over by cars and huge trucks going both ways on G Street. But the birds avoid such inconveniences and continue to swoop down on the bread, some of which lies in the middle of the road. The beggar looks on indulgent.

After three months of wishing him good morning, I realized today that the collection of coins in the tin can is almost an afterthought for him. His main job seems to be to subtly socialize. He seems to have guessed that the regulars hurrying by every morning have no time to really talk to people. He knows probably that they hardly talk to colleagues or spouses at home, that once they enter the tall glass and steel buildings past G Street, they will grab a cup of coffee from the cafeteria and rush to their desks to begin work. And so he keeps his conversation too to a minimum unless like with the elderly ladies, some one stops and moves to the side of the road to let others pass, a sign that they are preparing themselves for a chat. Then he asks them 'How is it going with you?' and this makes them happy. He compliments the women and makes them laugh though I wonder where he gets the jokes from. If the morning train wasn't late, more people stop and talk to him especially now that it's summer.

For a whole week in late March, I can barely hear the tin can rattle though the regulars stop to talk to him more often than ever. They probably don't have coins or maybe they just forget in the talking. He doesn't seem to mind that either but I feel suddenly sorry for him and the next morning I gave him a whole five dollars. He takes off his hat to me after I do that and I feel good the rest of the day. But it is not the five-dollar note alone that brings out a smile from him. He smiles at the less fortunate or stingier even if there is no coin to be had from them. People tip after a conversation, almost as an afterthought.

Some days, the regulars give him a dollar, a crisp one that floats into the tin can with a rich rustling sound, not a common rattle like the pennies or quarters of every day. After such days when the can rustles instead of rattling, he arrives the next morning with a loaf of fresh white bread for the pigeons and the pigeons are so excited they rush around his feet and perch on his old shoes. It reminds me of sheep and a shepherd and I describe this to my colleague. She only says 'Oh, is that the beggar who looks like Aubrey?' and laughs. I shrug because she drives to work, she is not one of the regulars and she doesn't know the beggar so she won't understand. But her question makes me think of my former boss Aubrey again. He looked harassed the last time I saw him, sitting at his desk late one evening as I was leaving, with only a desk lamp illuminating the pile of papers on the desk. That was his last day at work. I thought then that he deserved more pity than this beggar fellow did who was so popular with the ladies.

I'm amused the next day to see that the beggar has changed his feeding style. Where earlier he used to throw the bread wherever he wanted, letting some of it fall in the middle of the road, he has now changed his ploy. He plucks out chunks the size of his fist from the fresh soft loaf and places the rest of it in his coat pocket. Then he drops the chunk to the ground and puts his booted foot on it quickly before the pigeons can get at it. He then crushes the chunk thoroughly with the thick heel of the old black boot. Again and again he grinds his heel into the bread on the concrete footpath, shooing away the impatient pigeons with pigeon-like 'Coooeee-Coeeee's of his own. Finally when the chunk of bread is a white powdery thing, he removes the foot. The pigeons swoop on it and peck away but this time I can see there is enough to go around for the smaller ones as well. I nod to him and he nods back, pleased with his idea. The spectacle has attracted others too, I notice. People stop and ask him 'What are you doing?' and he explains to them how the bread must be crushed just right or the greedy little things will still fight over it and how if you don't put your heel on the chunk as soon as you drop it, the oldest of the pigeons (He points out a fat gray pigeon with wise old eyes and says he's a 'right bully') will grab the whole thing and leave nothing for the others. The people listen attentively but I don't know whether they are feigning it or whether they are secretly amused.

One would think that with a hat as faded and shabby as his, the beggar wouldn't want to call attention to it. But I notice yet another change in late March. He has begun to tip his hat slightly to accompany the singsong 'Good Morning' that charmed us in the first place. It works, especially with the ladies. If a pretty woman is passing by he actually takes off the hat and bows slightly, evoking giggles from the ladies. 'Oh you old charmer!' the regular ones will say and then turning to their friend, 'Isn't he adorable?' as if he was a poodle, but the beggar in his infinite patience doesn't mind this either.

Almost a year after the beggar came into my mornings, I notice with a shock that he is growing old. All of us do, I'm sure, but the beggar is a public figure you see and while we don't notice so much that our parents grow old or even our bosses, like Aubrey, I definitely see on that winter morning that the beggar's hunch is more pronounced than it had been in spring and his curly black hair seems suddenly and ominously sprinkled with a fine gray, like snow. His skin too has begun to sag. The process of aging that is spread over the years on most people, like a thin layer of butter on bread, seems concentrated in him. He stands against the cold, the tin can cupped in both hands, his chin creeping closer to the can as if to gain comfort from the contents of it. He wishes me good morning but does not take off his hat; it is too cold for such courtesies.

There are no pigeons today. Have they migrated to a warmer climate? I'm not sure pigeons do. I like to think that the beggar walks away in the evenings to empty his tin can into a large sack somewhere in the back yard of his house, a sack that is full of rustling one dollar and five dollar bills with just a few pennies and quarters.

One day, a deep winter day I'll never forget, the regulars are hurrying by the lamppost, hands deep in their pockets; I pass by and see that the beggar's spot is empty. I linger for a few minutes trying not to look suspicious but since it's 8:35 am and he doesn't appear from around the corner, I give up and walk on. I turned to look back once just before I turn the corner, as if I hope he will suddenly step out from behind the lamppost, a loaf of white bread in his hand, ready to be crushed into a powder for the pigeons. The pigeons think that too apparently. They are there today, looking forlorn if pigeons could, and they peck at the frostbitten ground and walk around the garbage can making loud lonely pigeon-sounds.

When beggars disappear from their street corners, it is assumed that they have died some time the previous night, a horrible lonely death, clutching their meager savings to their bony chests. But I know this gentleman is different just as I know that he will never come back to that street corner. I suspect he has retired with all his savings as we the regulars continue to rush down G Street every morning to work.

A year later, I find myself at the London Airport waiting for my connecting flight to Bombay, India when my husband says to me 'Hey isn't that your Boss Aubrey?'

I look up with drowsy eyes, already beginning to feel the rude time difference between the countries. 'Where?' I ask.

My husband points to the smoking part of the visitor's lounge, which is separated from us by a glass wall. There seated far away, one black-booted leg crossed over the other sits a man, but I can't see much of him because of the way his hat is tipped down over his eyes. 'Nice hat,' my husband adds.

'Aubrey doesn't smoke' I say softly and sit up straight.

'What's the matter?' asks my husband.

I watch the man stand up now, stub out the cigarette, and look at his watch. Then he turns away and walks out through the door marked 'Boarding'. But before he turns, I know that he has seen me He tips his hat, this one new, ever so slightly that I'm not even sure now in retrospect that the gesture was meant for me. Perhaps he was only adjusting it. I stared, then smiled and turned away deliberately to give him time to leave. Then I ran to the smokers lounge through the connecting door and picked up his cigarette butt from the ashtray. It was not Marlboro.

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