It was still raining so we relocated from outside the Market to the inside. The Market usually is bustling with business people and tourists but we were too early for the normal crowd.

One guy was wearing a lime green sports coat with smiley buttons. The yellow buttons perfectly matched the color of his pants. He would occasionally burst into song as he walked from one end of the Market to the other.

Sitting at the set of tables across from us was an older guy who at one point walked over to our table and carefully placed three free magazines on our table. From behind it could be seen, under his baseball cap, that he had had several stitches from what looked like a rather serious injury. We didn't acknowledge him and he returned to his seat by his cart.

We watched as the rain started to come down in a torrent as we were rescheduling our mornings so we would not have to leave when the old guy with the magazines came by for another visit. I've seen the guy before. I assumed him to be someone mostly forgotten; a man just waiting out his time, spending his last days in some set rotation that involved the Market during the day and some sort of an assisted living housing by night. I've seen him interact with people before but I had never heard him talk. We again didn't acknowledge him.

"This is what I do," he said as he pulled a small bundle from his pocket. He had a variety of little leather pouches some with zipper and others that just folded. The leather appeared to be unfinished and the stitching was of some type of natural cord. "I used to be a shoe maker. These are very strong. I sell them for five dollars," he then demonstrated the strength of his little pouches by putting an index finger in either side and he appeared to pull with all his might. The little crudely stitched pocket held up to its maker's test. "The zippers cost three dollars."

"I'll take one. I just need to get change."

"I got five bucks. You can give it to me later," I told my buddy and then decided that I needed a wallet too. The old guy was already holding my last five so I handed him a ten and wondered if he could do the math; without delay he handed me the five back. I smiled.

He told us he was seventy five years old and that all of his family had passed on, save his wife. Teary eyed he told us of how he used to travel to France every year.

"I'm retired now," he said. I wondered how a shoemaker in today's society could really retire and then he added that he used to work for GE in Lynn. I knew that plant closed a few years ago. "I retired at sixty two and now I have nothing to do. I just go home and..." he then acted like he was just sitting, slumping in some unseen chair.

"I go to back to France in November. I'm a French man. Over here there is nothing for me to do. Over there I can go to the bar, met friends and..." he then danced a little and made a joyous sound.

He showed us pictures of his siblings, of his parents and of some friends. "All dead," he said and then he pulled out a wedding picture.

The rain was still very heavy and I was looking for an escape. He was making us uncomfortable. He was reminding us of death, old age, being forgotten, time passing you by, and being alone. I did not want to be there but I didn't want to just walk away for him either.

I wonder how many people won't have time to listen to me in thirty six years.