A Stranger to Kindness

A Stranger to Kindness Austin Johansen

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The elevator doors opened and out spilled the sardines of lawyers, brokers, columnists

and reporters, programmers, marketers, copy writers and copy-makers. A doe-eyed intern

juggling manila folders, three purses, a cell phone and a coffee pot staggered in a half-circle,

nearly toppling the whole load onto a shriveled man in the corner, David Kingston. David began

to lend an arm to help but pulled his hand back to his dripping brow, wiped it with the back of

two fingers and smeared them in a crease of his oversized pants before lowering his head and

scurrying out the doors. Descending into the subway tunnel just outside the building’s doors, his

skeletal structure seemed to struggle against the weight of his faded, gray suit jacket as it

swallowed his body whole. He had been carrying the same tattered and almost-brown leather bag

on his sunken right shoulder to and from the offices of Kingston & Stern at Columbus Circle for

32 years, and if the bottom of the bag fell through he’d simply buy a new one that somehow

looked older and rattier than the last. He did, however, maintain the quality of a round, green

patch he attached to the handle of each new satchel; a remnant of his involuntary three-year

service in the Pacific before succumbing to an arranged marriage with his grandfather’s law firm.

Six mornings every week he would grasp the patch and gather his satchel into the hollow of his

chest to allow the elevator to fill, sacrificing his toes to an attorney’s stilettos, huffing the shoe

polish and hair product, ego, intimidation and Burberry cologne, squeezing the last traces of

respect sewn into the leather strap.

Scuttling through the revolving doors into the 8th

avenue chill of Monday evening, David

sensed a presence before he reached the familiar crosswalk adjacent to the building. The short

hairs on his neck prickled from a crossing wind, he thought. Squeezing the frosty patch on his

shoulder, David turned around. Standing a few hurried steps behind him is Robert Sampson. An

insurance attorney, Robert recognized the familiar nose and jawline of the measly man facing


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him. It matched that of the golden-framed portrait at the entrance to the office one floor above

his. Peering over his the rim of his sunglasses and holding his phone in his left palm, Robert

smoothed the wrinkles out of his salmon shirt, stroking the steamed and smoky-gray suit sleeves

in equally methodical procession.

“You’re Mr. Kingston’s son, aren’t you?” David was struck by the magnitude of the taller

man’s voice, how effortlessly it sliced through the air that bit at his ears.

David’s eyes squinted briefly, looking deeper behind Robert’s gaze. He swallowed hard,

adjusted his satchel and cleared his throat to speak, but Robert knew he had his man.

“I heard your grandfather died last week. My kindest regards, he was a great man.”

Robert pursed his lips and looked down to David with a sympathetic shake of the head. He might

have offered a pat on the shoulder but David’s coat sank just beyond his reach.

“You knew my grandfather?” Robert stood frozen, as if he didn’t actually expect this

stature of man to turn, let alone speak. His voice was like an old vinyl recording, dusty, filled

with history and scratches, left on a bottom shelf for years before being stowed away and

forgotten. He seemed to be swaying on his feet, not really going or staying, so Robert spoke up

to make sure it was the latter.

“Not personally.” Robert said. “I studied law in college for a bit and almost applied for an

internship with Kingston & Stern one summer. But that was when I wanted to be a lawyer.” He

let out a single half-chuckle. David silently shifted the strap on his shoulder.

“Well we can’t all be astronauts and doctors, can we?”

Robert let his smile fade to a smirk. “Some more than others, I suppose.”


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David followed the man opposite’s eyes as they pitied his smudged, brown shoes peeking

from beneath his charcoal pant legs. He felt forcibly aware of the slack in his tie. There was not

enough starch in his sleeves, not enough glint from his two front teeth. He felt the extra weight

sinking into his right shoe; the sole was far too worn.

“Thank you for your words, Mr…”

“Sampson, but I’d prefer you call me Rob.” He watched David’s hand extend an offer to

shake.

Robert pushed the nosepiece of his glasses up the stiff bridge of his nose, concealing his

eyes as he took a broad step towards David’s hand. Ignoring the vibrating in his left hand, he slid

the phone into a silk-laced inner pocket, closed David’s fingertips in his own palm and placed his

opposite hand on David’s more prominent left shoulder.

“I’m sure you know your father lacks the confidence his father once brought to that

firm.” David enjoyed the warmth of Rob’s hand enclosing his own as a wind surged through the

avenue’s tunnel stream.

“Kingston had respect. Exuded dignity. He held a certain bravado foreign to his only son.

But certainly not unknown to his.” He opened his lips to stretch two rows of gleaming, gapless

teeth. No place to hide anything in there, even if he wanted to. “I’ve studied your cases, Mr.

Kingston, but lately the industry has studied the rest of your colleagues’ even more. It’s only a

matter of time until the clients reach the same conclusion.”

Robert lifted his hand from David’s shoulder, leaving a moist, pristine handprint with a

lightly snowflaked border. Free of the burden, David tossed his leather satchel from the dip of his


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right side to the crest of his left, fixing a new grip on the prickly, green patch on the strap, its

sewing threads still rigid and lacking the fray of the surrounding leather. He stiffened the

muscles in his lower back to stand up straighter.

“So you’re the man to turn it all around then?”

Robert let out a sharp, humorless laugh. He swept the sleeve of his suit and flicked patch

of snow from a crease in his wrist.

“For a forgotten gem like yourself. Let me find you a place in my office, before Stern

trims your family’s fat around his own special interests.”

David had read the industry reports about Kingston & Stern on his subway commutes last

week in one of the papers he dropped on his father’s desk every morning. It was true; his father

never resembled Mr. Kingston. He stood shorter to the ground, ate a repetitive and solitary lunch

and his voice rarely carried to the farthest half-office in the corner opposite his own. But the rare

times it stretched into that office’s earshot, his son David would loyally emerge. Converted from

its use as dated file and supply storage, David called the space his own; set aside by the hand of

his father’s grace.

“I’ve already found my place, Mr. Sampson,” David said with a raised chin. “New York

should be big enough for you to find yours too.”

He turned and left Robert in the company of a chauffeur, resuming his hurried march to

the subway tunnel with a tattered and almost-brown bag swinging in his trail, forming a new

groove on his overcoat’s left shoulder.

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A Stranger to Kindness