Tin Can

The street was busy, noisy. People traveled quickly because the dark alleys snaking away hid secrets they refused to acknowledge. Cars honked impatiently as lights turned green and pedestrians clogged the crossings.

For hours, days, weeks, months, he sat. It might rain, or turn cold and frosty. It might be sweltering hot, sun beating down, fading awnings over café doors. Still, he sat. He hardly spoke. Didn't need to. His tin can spoke for him. He'd become a fixture, nameless, gray, and harmless. The police stopped picking him up because he never resisted and resolutely always returned to sit in the same place beside his tin can.

He had no name. His mug shot was labeled "Tin Can". That's what people called him.

The café owner slipped him a free coffee at 5AM and stale muffins at 9PM. The florist brought him fruit on Fridays. And so it was that he was content. Any coins that dropped into his can were stashed deep into a pouch. He never spent them. They say Tin Can is the richest man in the world.