Man of the City

Up and down the streets the apparition walked. A casual observer might find it odd to see such purpose in a man of the night, as only drunkards could be seen at the ungodly hour this man was walking. But to the residents of the district in which the lone walker performed his vigil, this was a constant and dependable figure. He was as much part of the dim and foggy street as the lamppost or the concrete colossi flanking the street. Up this street at nine, down this one by midnight, every night the same worn path. Nothing would stop him in his walk, save for a few stops to light his cigarette. Every night upon the corner of fifth and penn, he would lean against the lamppost and bring his hands to his mouth, and a light would flare against his badge. If the weather was bad, often it was, he would duck into a covered alleyway. It was during these times when people began to wonder why, in such adverse conditions, would the man continue to walk? Why did he not just punch in and stay in the station instead of walking the dim and soggy streets of San Francisco? The spark that kept this lone man walking was not money nor dedication to family, but a belief. This man was a policeman, a man of the city. In this district he was the law. Every street needed its law. He couldn't survive off the street, as there was a constant itch of crime being committed at the back of his mind. So he took solace in the beat. The "polis" needed him, needed the cleansing of murderers and thieves. When he first started the beat, there were many times of adventure. Midnight chases, bursting in doors, his truncheon became worn and dented. No criminal could hide from him, no injustice could be covered up. He never relented. Some people, mostly criminals, called him ruthless. Many adored him, calling him a hero. What mattered to him was that crime in his district became nearly nonexistent. Word spread of him in the way words do, and he became a legend. Newspapers wished to interview him, but he declined. Content to continue his beat, he kept the law and gradually made his small slice of his city safe. Less and less often were the adventures of the night. But ever he was vigilant, this man of the city. Every night was the beat, lamppost to street corner, up and down. The small voice of crime still whispered in his ear, whispering of people being wronged, of injustice being carried out. This dragged him from his bed and out into the street every night, and paraded him around his pride and joy. Every night, up and down, up and down, ever a man of the city.