I watched the old man on the street. I knew it was impolite, that I was going to be late for school, that I was old enough to know better. But there was something hypnotizing about his arthritic movements on that windy October morning, the swallow-leaves sailing through the air, the sky covered in a frosty layer of clouds.
    Very slowly, very gently, he was setting down a black case. Just like that. Right in the middle of the sidewalk. He had a cart of other items next to him, the usual homeless array of tattered clothes and newspapers and – he was lucky – a tent and sleeping bag. I could see the tent, like a flightless bird, its green nylon wings folded beneath its poles. But he was ignoring the cart, he seemed almost to have forgotten about it.
    He lay the case onto its side and knelt down by it, then unlatched it to reveal the instrument within. A saxophone – an alto saxophone, I thought, thinking of my friend in band. Had I been less naive, or at least less trusting, I would probably have assumed he'd stolen it somewhere. For it glimmered from the velvety night depths of the case like a mountain stream in gold harvest-moon light, in stark contrast to the disarray of his whole persona – disheveled hair the color of lead, crumbs, food stains, the cart itself an addendum to his being. But no, no; the thought that the instrument could belong to anyone but him was heresy.
    With the same honed attention and creaking movements as before, he gently took the saxophone out, lifting it, the weight of the metal nothing compared to the buoyancy of its reflected light. Balancing it on his thigh, holding it to his body – still, I noted, trying to keep the worst of his grimy wool sweater, an indeterminate swamp brown, away from it – he plunged back into the depths of the case with his other hand, to take out a little clear bottle, with some sort of liquid in it. Eyes fastened to the saxophone, the old man removed the cap on the bottle.
    I had drawn closer by this time, and even set my backpack down, but he still had not noticed me, and I still could not bear to tear myself away. The amount of people on the street had not increased (though more cars were rushing by in clouds of warm and chemical gasoline smoke), and the few that passed by were too busy checking their phones to spare a thought for us. School? What school, I told myself, when this…?
    Glacial patience, the creeping of ice across bone-dry rocky valleys. That was him as he dripped the oil into every single joint of the instrument. Every key, every nook and cranny between key rods, anywhere rust or dirt or time could conceivably slow the instrument's reaction to touch, that could cause it to scrape and creak and sigh, every such spot was coated in a film of oil. I could almost hear the gentle, clear vibration when he tested the keys of metal sliding smoothly against metal.
    Then he took out a rag, a remarkably clean rag, to remove every speck of dust from the instrument's surface. His movements by this time had themselves become smoother, as though in caring for the instrument, he was somehow oiling his own joints.
    I waited and watched. His eyes, his attention – hypnotizing…
    Finally the moment came. A half-hour, an hour perhaps, I didn't know; the sun had drifted in the sky, farther up, grown cooler and whiter. The wind continued to gust, the swallow-leaves still flew.
He took out the neck of the saxophone – I had watched him oil it, too – and gently pushed it in. Then he took out a black, shiny mouthpiece. Put it onto the neck, liberally rubbed with cork grease. A reed. A ligature.
    The instrument he held in his hands looked alive. It looked ready to fly – to sing, in his wrinkle-cobwebbed hands, it was gold and beautiful and glorious, all its keys shining in that October sunlight, complex and fractal, an endless filigree of pearly keys and key rods. I found myself holding my breath.

    Just then, his attention broke.
    The old man noticed me, his eyes deep brown and grasshopper-quick. The lines around his mouth deepened as he smiled. “Why,” he said, and his voice was wonderfully grandfather-like, “I do believe I have led you astray; my apologies.”
    “How so?” I was startled, more by his sudden diversion from his instrument than by anything else; it seemed to fade as he directed his attention to me.
    “You see,” his smile grew a little bit smaller, a little bit sadder, “I don't play the alto saxophone.”
    Before, I hadn't really been startled. I changed my mind. I was startled now. “Then why -”
    “You see,” he said again, “this is not my saxophone. This – it was my wife's.”
    “Was -” I caught myself. “I'm so sorry. I – I didn't mean to -”
    “No, no, it's all right, quite an understandable mistake. Happened before. I should probably stop putting on such a show. Though I must say, you're the first person to have watched the whole.”
    “It's not a show,” I assured him. “I think -”
    “I think,” he said firmly, “that your school has already started, a while ago. I ought to have chased you off myself; I would have, if I'd noticed you. Run along now.”
    “I -”
    “I'll be here. Tomorrow morning, I suppose. I move between towns often, but I ought to be here tomorrow.”
    “All right,” I found myself saying. “Tomorrow.”
    I turned, picked up my backpack, started to walk in the direction of my school. I stopped and looked back; he was putting the saxophone away.
    “You won't be here tomorrow, will you?” I called to him.
    The old man smiled and waved a hand; yes, no, did it matter? I stayed in place for a moment, then nodded. “Tomorrow,” I whispered to myself, and ran all the way to school.