Tuesdays are weird days downtown.
On Tuesdays, the Old Man goes to the plaza and sifts through the wishes in the fountain. He's not actually that old, but he gives of the impression of age to everyone who looks at him. He doesn't look homeless; he looks like the stuffier breed of university professor. He's usually wearing a tweed jacket, a vest, and a white undershirt. He usually has a tie. He usually wears a baseball cap of some sort, which clashes with the rest of him. When he gets to the fountain, he sighs and takes off the jacket, rolls up his sleeves, sets aside his shoes, and wades into the fountain.
One by one, he checks the coins.
He'll pick one up at seemingly random and squint at the it in the sunlight. Usually he scoffs something like "Nonsense," then toss it over his shoulder. Usually it will land in the water with a soft "plunk."
He'll picks up another, then another, all the while muttering things like:
"Poppycock."
"A pony? Not likely."
"World peace? Ha!"
And so on.
Sometimes he'll find one he likes. He'll pick it up and say, "huh," or "interesting," or "well, bless your heart." These ones he stuffs into his pockets.
After an hour or two of wading through the coins, he'll finally stretch, give one last look around, and then leave the fountain, his pockets jingling.
I don't know what he does with the wishes once he's gotten them. I hopes he takes them someplace nice.
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