Tic Tacs
Savannah Kleinlein

Chicago is a bustling city, one full of twists and turns and plenty of opportunities to be anonymous. You can walk down the street and no one will give you a second glance; no one looks into the cars next to them and remembers who was in the driver's seat. People go about their busy, selfish little lives, paying attention to their schedule and their goals and their dreams, complaining about trivial things and never thinking about how it could be worse. And like every thriving metropolis, Chicago has its share of homeless people. The weather is not friendly to the alley-dwellers; winds howl and rain barrages, thunder booms and lightning flashes, and some days the cold seems to seep straight to the marrow. These people are perhaps noticed more often than everyone else, but quickly fade into the background and are dismissed as unimportant.
There was one man, however, that everyone seemed to notice – if they were lucky enough to see him. Those that did catch a glimpse rarely realized how fortunate they were. In a city of 6.8 million people, the chances of seeing this one man were one in a million. And yet he was nowhere and everywhere at the same time, with his dark skin, ragged ski cap, beaten khaki trousers, battered parka, and torn snow boots. At first glance, he seemed just like every other homeless man out there; those upon whom fate had fallen the hardest. But there was something about him that entranced and enthralled others; something in his flashing dark eyes, or broad, ready smile – or perhaps it was the mysterious sound that followed him everywhere he went. It was constant, unrelenting – a ceaseless ssh, ssh, ssh, like the noise uncooked rice makes when it is shaken, up-down, up-down, in a bottle. This sound was, unbeknownst to every Chicagoan in the city save for this man alone, something of the essence of magic.
Miss Cecilia Moffatt, dressed in her flamboyant outfit of the day, charged out of her apartment on Fullerton Street, dragging her fluffy little poodle, Midge, behind her. Her frizzy red hair stood straight on end, springing up and down around her pale freckled face as she charged through the streets with the poor dog practically bouncing off the sidewalk as he struggled to keep up with his owner. She turned onto Ashland Avenue, bought a paper and the latest People magazine from the newsstand in eight seconds flat, and promptly ran straight into a homeless bum on the street.
Looking up into those sparkling dark eyes, the apology died on her lips and Cecilia stood transfixed. She had no idea what was suddenly so captivating about this man. Cecilia had always considered homeless people to be rather unfortunate beings but, sad as it was, uneducated and therefore uncivilized and uncouth. However, this black man turned, graciously took off his cap, and nodded to her with a smile. And then – the noise! Ssh, ssh. Miss Moffatt had no choice; she smiled back. Very kindly, then, he noticed her interest and put a hand in his pocket. As he shook the elusive item, he murmured, in a voice ringing with the sound and feel of beaches and mountains and trees and lakes and choirs, “Do you believe in magic, Cecilia?”
She had to nod. Then, almost too quickly to notice, he dropped something into her hands and murmured, “This will give you your deepest wish – even those that seem . . out of reach.” Then he put his cap back on his head and, whistling, continued his quiet shuffled down the busy street. Cecilia was left standing on the curb. She realized she had been holding her breath, let it out with a start, and looked at the item in her hand.
It was small, green, and familiar: a Tic Tac. A simple little Tic Tac. And yet . . . for a moment, Cecilia remembered the staccato ssh, ssh, and she did: she believed in magic. She slipped the Tic Tac into her mouth, and slowly began walking again, thinking all the time about a certain man in Lazul's Gallery, where she worked, and wondering if dreams could come true.

Continued