The Little Boy

3/8/2001

There is a little cafŽ in the mall in Missoula that serves a sandwich that I cannot resist. Whenever I'm in that area at lunch time, I indulge in one of them: spinach, brie, roast beef and pine nuts on toasted bread.

A few weeks ago I was sitting at one of the little tables in the open area of the mall contentedly munching away and watching the people as they walked by: older couples getting their exercise; two young women power walking, passing everyone as they swung their arms; and a delightful bevy of young women with a collection of children from small babies in snugglies and backpacks to toddlers in strollers, and even one or two older children happily trotting along holding on to their mother's hand.

I was thoroughly enjoying myself with good food, good coffee and pleasant entertainment, and then a little boy of nine or so appeared at my side. He politely asked if he could move an extra chair from my table to the one next to it. At my nod he placed the chair at his table and arranged the other two chairs carefully.

"Are you alone?" he asked.

When I said that I was, he proudly said he was waiting for someone. I smiled at him and continued eating. "There are a lot of people here," he said, and I agreed.

By now I had had time to observe my neighbor. He wore a crisp white shirt, gray slacks and polished brown oxfords. His hair was cut like a model in GQ. He was a perfect little gentleman in dress and manner, completely out of step with the jeans, sweatshirts and Nikes that most of the people surrounding us wore.

He would glance toward the counter occasionally, but, as I faced the open area, I couldn't see who he was watching and waiting for. He had arranged the chairs so carefully that it was obvious that he was anticipating people to sit in them, and then his face lit up. I was curious, expecting handsome, pleasant parents to appear, and handsome they were.

An extremely well-dressed couple strode by, and without breaking stride, the man curled his finger at the boy in the universal signal of "come along." Not a word was spoken to him. Both of the parents carried paper cups of espresso--and I didn't see a third container of anything. They went by so fast that I never really saw their faces. The boy stood up obediently, glanced sadly at me and lifted his hands as he shrugged his shoulders in an expression of "What can I do?" as he followed obediently after them. Three vacant chairs surrounded the table next to me.

I also left. The sandwich had lost its flavor.

I wish I would only remember the babies held close in their cozy carriers. Instead, I know I will never forget that lonely little boy.