Donald was a spry old man, for being seventy-seven. He took the subway everyday from the station near his tiny Inwood flat to that near Central Park. With him, he carried a pink plastic folding lawn chair and a potato sack full of the pancakes he made every morning.
Two for himself, the rest for the pigeons.
There was nothing too particular about the Tuesday when he bought a lemonade from a vendor near Balto. He sipped the sweet juice, satiating his thirst, as he made his way to his spot.
The sky was a grayish color overhead and as a result not many people seemed to be out and about, but Donald didn't care about this.
He splashed through a large puddle made from the rain shower of the night before, sending ripples across his aged face with its goose fluff frame.
At the fountain, he set his pink plastic chair up an settled in. The lemonade rested beside his water stained house slippered feet.
Already a few pigeons had gathered, perhaps they expected him or maybe they really were an infestation to the city.
Donald smiled as he opened the potato sack, but his smile quickly disappeared.
He could see the fabric of his black sweatpants through the gaping hole in the bottom of the sack.
What was left of the pancakes hung in crumbs on the coarse lining of the bag.
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