Morgan's Passing by Anne Tyler

course!” he said. “Be my guest! Waste your money! Fill your life with junk!” He stabbed the cash-register keys. “A dollar twenty-nine,” he said.
    â€œIt’s
my
dollar twenty-nine, I’ll waste it however I like,” said the man, pressing the money into Morgan’s palm. “Maniac.”
    â€œJunkie!”
    The man rushed off, clutching his Hide-a-Key. Morgan muttered to himself and slammed the cash register shut.
    When Butkins came back, Morgan was free to go to lunch. He went to the No Jive Café; he liked their pickles. All the other customers were black, though, and they wouldn’t talk to him. They seemed to spend their mealtimes passing tiny wads of money to the counterman, and then mumbling and looking off sideways under lowered lids. Meanwhile Morgan slouched over his plate and chewed happily on a pickle. It really was a wonderful pickle. The garlic was so strong it almost fizzed. But you only got one to a plate, alongside your sandwich. He’d asked time and time again for an extra, but they always said no; he’d have to order another hamburger that he didn’t even want.
    After he finished eating, he thought he’d take a walk. He had a regular pattern of places he liked to visit. He zipped his parka and set off. The day had not warmed up much; the passers-by had pinched, teary faces. Morganwas glad of his beard. He turned up his collar and held it close and proceeded almost at a run, squinting against the wind.
    First to Potter, the used-instrument dealer, but Potter had someone with him—a gawky, plain young woman trying out a violin. “Father Morgan!” Potter cried. “Miss Miller, meet Father Morgan, the street priest of Baltimore. How’s it going? How’re your addicts? Come in and have some tea!”
    But customers here were rare, and Morgan didn’t want to interrupt. “No, no,” he said, holding up a hand. “I must be on my way. Blessings!” and he backed out the door.
    He cut through an alley and came out on Marianna Street. An exotic woman with a torrent of black hair stood beside a hot-dog cart. Her make-up was stupendous—a coppery glaze on her skin, a flaring red slash of a mouth, and mascara so heavily applied that each eyelash seemed strung with black beads. Now that it was winter, she was wrapped in old coats and sweaters, but Morgan knew from warmer seasons that underneath she wore a red lace dress and an armload of chipped, flaking, gold-tone bracelets.
“Zosem pas!”
he called out to her.
    â€œWell, hey!” she said. She spoke extra brightly, exaggerating her lip movements. “How you today? Get a letter from home?”
    Morgan smiled humbly and looked perplexed.
    â€œLetter!” she shouted. She wrote on her palm with an imaginary pencil. “You get a letter?”
    â€œAh!” said Morgan, suddenly realizing. He shook his head.
“Pok,”
he said sadly.
“Kun salomen baso.”
The corners of his mouth turned down; he scuffed a boot against the wheel of her cart.
    â€œYou poor man,” she said. “Well, maybe tomorrow, huh?”
    â€œBrankuso,”
he told her.
“Zosem pas!”
and he waved and grinned and walked on.
    At the corner of Marianna Street and Crosswell hehesitated. What he would really like was to turn down Crosswell—just ahead in that general direction. What harm could it do? He hadn’t been in several weeks. He’d resisted temptation admirably. He shoved both hands in his pockets and set out.
    CRAFTS UNLIMITED , the sign in the middle of the block said. It was an elderly building, four stories tall. The first-floor bay window was full of patchwork quilts, cornhusk dolls, samplers, woven goods, and puppets. The windows above it were narrower, dark and uncurtained. It was the third-floor windows that Morgan watched, from the shadow of a Laundromat doorway—Emily and Leon Meredith’s windows. He had