I'll tell it to ya straight. Here I am, jobless—it's the Depression, ya know?—an' I'm just sittin' on the sidewalk, beside a big newspaper building, waitin' for some spare change. Ever' so often, some bigwig from up top would decide 'is life was worthless, and throw 'imself off the top floor of the scraper, and sometimes his change would fall out of his pockets and land near me. Trouble was, if I didn't get to it fast, one of the others waitin' around would scoop it up fast. I got this bum leg—see?—I spread it around I got it in the trenches, but the truth is that when I was young and stupid I tried to learn how to fly . . . Anyways I'm none too fast now, so the goin' was rough for me under that skyscraper. There I sat, with nothin' but the clothes on me back. The clothes came from the nice ladies in the Red Cross, or the Relief Aid or some such, and they didn't fit, but with the cold comin' on I didn't mind, 'cause they were warm. Then one day—it was October, a cold and cloudy mornin', but no snow yet—I was sittin', waitin', tryin' to ignore the other down-on-their-luck fellows sittin' and waitin', too, when this young man in a dark overcoat stops by and asks me for a light - a light! As if I've got that kinda money just lyin' around, I told him.
He apologized, sayin' that he was awfully sorry and that he wasn't used to the customs around here. Do you use matches as currency now? he asked curiously. He was carrying a kind of canvas knapsack slung over his shoulder, and was holding onto the strap as if afraid to lose it. Well, I began to wonder about the number of cards in this fellow's deck, so I played along. Oh yes, I told him (a white lie, and nearly the truth anyway), things just haven't been the same since the war. That's what I was afraid of, he says, very serious. So here's what I'm going to do, fella, I'll trade you something for some information. You see, I just came over, and I've got a lot of catching up to do. Well, this explained a lot. The war drove a lot of young boys out of their nut, and it was no use tryin' to get them to see reason. So I said, what kinda information? And what'll I get in return? Well, says he, I can see things have changed since my last visit. I'll give you as many matches as you need to set you up comfortably— Now, wait a minute, I said, wondering why he was asking me for a light if he had so many himself, and also because I could see that he was serious about this, I'm not greedy. I only need so many matches. They're only useful if you smoke, which I don't. I'm comfortably set up here, but the going is rough when it's so hard to compete. Here I slapped my bum leg to illustrate my point. He was naturally curious about this, and he inquired as to my business here. When I explained, he looked up at the newspaper building and shook his head sorrowfully. Yes, I can see things have changed, he said. I have my work cut out for me. Then he turned to me again and said, Thank you for your help, Mister. I think I know exactly what to do here. Then he took the knapsack off his shoulder and handed it to me. This is my lucky pack, see, and it'll help you when you need it. Just lay it out and . . . and take good care of it, all right? He looked at this pack sadly, touched it gently, and then he turned around and was gone before I could so much as gape in astonishment. I looked that pack over carefully, but it was completely empty, and so worn that the bottom was barely holdin' on. Cursin' all the crazies and their 'offerin's,' I threw it on the ground and returned to my vigil. Well, I was only waitin' about five minutes when I hear above me a shrill scream. Familiar with that sound, all of us waitin' below turn our heads up to see a well-dressed newspaper fellow plummeting down towards us. His face, what I could see of it, looked scared, as if he were having second thoughts. He was close to the ground when I saw something strange happening with the stranger's knapsack—the flap suddenly flew open, as if caught by a strong gust of wind, and this same wind began to blow upwards, so strongly that all the newspapers lyin' strewn about the road began to flap around, and everyone was battin' them away and chasin' their hats. So I was the only one that saw that frightened newspaper man get caught in the blast and—this is the amazin' part—fly back upwards and land, unharmed, on the roof. I heard a clatter by my feet, and saw a few pennies land on the ground right next to me. I quickly scooped them up before anyone else could notice, and shoved them in my pocket.
Well, the very next day the same thing happened—a young fellow jumped, and the wind came again and blew him to safety, and some more change landed practically in my lap. I was confused now, but I remembered that crazy boy and I wondered if he had something to do with it, so I brushed off the pack and laid it out carefully on the sidewalk next to me, and waited. This continued for several weeks. I got so that I was never sure where the change that fell came from: the boys fallin', or the knapsack itself. I had a fat lump in my pocket, though, and I was grateful for it, wherever it came. I didn't want to leave my source of income; but I was considerin' movin' to somewhere higher-class, like the Empire State or the Hearst building. I figured that the people there might have more change to spare.
Well, one day I was just sittin', waitin', pattin' the knapsack where it lay next to me, and a lady in a fur coat and boots—for the snow, y'see–-comes up and asks, This is where that fellow Porter jumped, isn't it? I was surprised, and I said, I dunno what you mean, lady. Well, it was in all the papers. She looked up at the building. John Porter—he's been telling everyone that he tried to kill himself by jumping off this building and a huge gust of wind blew him back up to safety. She frowned at the street. At least, I think it was this building. Perhaps I'd better try uptown . . . Well, at this point, the other bums jumped up and began yelling at her, all excited, that it was this building, and did she have some change to spare? This frightened her, and she run off, but the commotion attracted a bunch of other people, and when they heard that this was the site of the miracle, they called their friends, and those friends called all their relatives, and soon there was a huge crowd, all gathered around and staring up in awe at the snow-covered building. Somebody called the press, and somebody called the police, and somebody called the firefighters, and soon there was a big crowd, all pushing together, and so I picked up the lucky pack to keep it out from under all those feet. I was just escaping from the press when suddenly an old bum who sat near me cried out, It was him—it was that man over there! His knapsack! Stop him! I was grabbed by many hands, friendly or not, it didn't matter. Turns out that the old bum had also watched the pack, and had seen what it had done, and now the story came out. I was raised to the people's shoulders, and paraded around, and taken to see the Mayor, and Mr. Rockefeller, and then Mr. Porter was shaking my hand, and there was a whole crowd of fellows who wanted to wring my poor appendage and touch the pack. All the boys the pack had saved were there, and talking about forming some kind of union to protect it, and maybe calling themselves "The Band of the Satchel," or some such nonsense. And somehow they forgot to feed me. I mean, I got all of a hero's welcome except for a bowl of soup or a good roast. I'm a man of uncomplicated tastes. People tried several times to take the knapsack away from me, but I was havin' none of it. I got nervous 'cause they all wanted to touch it, so I put it away, but then there was a big outcry, and shouting about wanting to see the "miracle bag," so I put it under my arm and held it tight. The next day, after spending an uncomfortable night in one of Mr. Rockefeller's hotels, I was trying to sneak away when in comes a conglomerate of stuffed shirts, and they were talking about me coming to Washington to visit Mr. Roosevelt. Says the spokesman, We think that the . . . er . . . knapsack could become a powerful national symbol, of hope and faith. The President would like to speak with you about becoming a spokesperson for the New Deal Association, and the sack . . . satchel. Now, wait a moment, I said, how is a pack supposed to appear on the radio? It can't talk. We have absolute wizards working on the radio committee, Mr. Brown, he assured me, who never back down from a challenge. And it isn't really mine, I admitted, realizing that this was the case. It's on loan from a . . . friend, and he'll want it back soon. Oh, said the man, obviously disappointed. Well, would your friend be interesting in selling the object? No, he would not, I told him. Now the other shoe dropped. He took off his glasses and glared near-sighted-ly at me. Mr. Brown, this is a matter of vital national concern. We are prepared to be very stubborn about this. Mister, I told him, you just try'n out-stubborn a street bum. You'll still be waitin' when this hotel is just dust. He replaced his glasses and said darkly, we'll see. You have tonight to ruminate this decision. I'll be back in the morning for your answer—along with several 'friends.' Then he turned and stomped out, pursued by his tweed-garbed fellows. I paced across the plush carpet all that day, pausing only to glance out the window every so often. A crowd was gathered outside, gazing upward, waiting for a glimpse of the miraculous knapsack. -How'm I gonna get out of this one?- I wondered many a time.
That night was another sleepless one, and not just from the too-soft mattress. I dozed off finally, though, wondering how I was going to get out of this mess. I woke up to see a familiar face at the end of my bed. His dark overcoat was hung over his arm now, and his face was grave, hands tucked into his pockets. Well, Mr. Brown, he said, what luck have you had with my pack? I see your quarters are much nicer than when we last met. I wondered how he knew my name, but I figured he must have picked it up in one of the tabloids. I'm worse off than ever, I said. I'm hungry and tomorrow I'll be arrested for treason! Dear me, he said, I'm so sorry. It's awkward . . . Here he broke off, biting his lip and eyeing the rumpled canvas sack. I was quaking. What was the loony going to bequeath to me now? It's just that I'm going back now, and we're specifically instructed not to leave anything of ours behind . . . I would like to make an exception, really I would, but it wouldn't do you any good in the long run . . . It hasn't done me any good in the short run, I said. I brandished the knapsack in his face. Take it, and I wish you well. I think its luck has turned sour, or backwards, or something. You'd better go - I am. He took the sack and stroked it lovingly. Well, some say that our things in a human's hands will change to bad luck, but I'm sure it's just a myth. Well, goodbye, Mr. Brown, and better luck this time. Then he bowed, twirled around twice, and was gone. I didn't waste any time blinking. I jumped out of bed and snuck downstairs. I slunk through the crowd, completely unnoticed because I no longer clutched the sack. Then I made for my old corner beside the old newspaper building. And here I still sit. The building's nothing but a derelict, a story of long ago, like me. The Depression's over, and the war is likely to end soon. With Mr. Roosevelt at the helm, I'm sure it'll turn out fine. No more change falling from the sky . . . why, thank you, young sir, that's mighty fine. Thanks for helping out an old man. Who was the stranger in the dark overcoat? Well, I think on that sometimes. When he appeared by my bed that night, I was sure that he was some sort of faery, the good, sort of mischievous kind. Maybe he was an angel, here to do good on the Earth. Angels are less likely to carry around bad-luck knapsacks, though . . .
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