The Camel's Back

                                                                                                                                                                         
                                            THE CAMEL'S BACK          

         What was most noticeable about the unfortunate man was the smallness of his face, off-centered on a strangely undersized head, itself wrongly proportioned to the lanky, long boned frame of his body. His thin, hunched, overly wide shoulders sloping down into slight listless arms, which lay, one unseen beneath the table, the other immobile beside a plate of food recently set by a waiter, who hesitating for a moment over his oddly misshapen customer, walked away, grimacing at the man's disturbing appearance and annoyed by his seeming indifferent rudeness.
         A lifetime of sideway glances from strangers hovered around the old man, his badly assembled body, a hair shirt of shame given to him at birth, visible to all. He wore it, not as a supplicant but as an exile from the world, a persona non grata, fully aware that he was one of those 'touched by the cruel hand of fate', so often spoken of, but of  whom most preferred to know nothing.
         His head, bowed as he gazed into his food, turned slowly towards a table nearby. A stubby, rotund man, to emphasize some point or other, was jabbing a finger at his companion, spluttering his fried breakfast across the table and sprinkling unwanted portions over his companion's french toast. Becoming aware that he was being watched, the fat man turned to retaliate with a smart ass remark, but surprised by the strangeness of the face looking at him, pulled back and stared wide eyed at his friend. They both turned quickly to the window beside them, in an attempt to hide the shock brought on by their neighbors features, and the smirking laughter which fought to escape through their clenched teeth.
         Returning to his waiting food, as though unaware of the reaction he had caused, the old fellow picked up a fork and carefully broke his two-egg cheese and tomato omelet into tiny bite sized pieces. 
         When the last small division had been eaten he reached for a paper napkin, gently wiped his mouth and from under lowered eyes caught the waiter's attention. Again not seeming to notice the silence and averted stares of the diners in his area, as they watched his every move with callous fascination.
         A loose strand of graying hair slipped over his right ear. Reaching up he carefully placed it back where it belonged.
         Laying the bill in front of the old man, the waiter concentrated his attention on the various posters positioned around the walls as though only at that moment had he become aware of them.
         Placing the exact change on top of his check, and pushing a tip towards  the  server the man stood up, and moving awkwardly through the tables, all eyes following him, made his way out of the restaurant and into a freshly falling Sunday morning rain.
          Walking, with a strange shuffling gait, he made his way towards the corner
traffic lights, indifferent to the wetness beginning to soak through his coat, seemingly oblivious to how quickly people stepped aside as he came towards them.
         Standing on the curb, he waited as the lights changed from red to green and the white symbol giving him permission to cross appeared. He studied the small running figure until the lights again changed to red. Looking up the street he watched as a bus came speeding towards the corner, and calmly stepped in front of it.