No one noticed him in his cleaner's uniform.  And no one gave him any thought as they dropped chocolate bar wrappers on the floor he'd just polished, and slopped half full Pepsis into the sand filled ashtrays he'd just cleaned.

      Stroking the dark skin on the back of his aching, arthritic hands, Thomas crushed out the tiny butt of his Camel plain and drained the last of his cold coffee.  One last look through rheumy eyes at the Saturday morning shoppers, and he was off to complete his rounds.

      Again, kids had made a mess in one of the mini playgrounds -- paper plates jammed into every damn crack and ice cream cones left to melt at the top of slide sets.  The plates were easy to pick up, but the sticky cream had already flowed down the frame of the slide.

      "Well, whadya expect? Parents bring ‘em here so they won't mess up at home.  But that's what they pay me for, I spoze."

      Passing the music store, he stopped for just a moment to look at the tenor sax in the window.

      "Trash . . . nothing like my old Selmer. Prolly made outta pressed pie plates painted gold.  And sounding like it.  Ha!  Gimme the old stuff anytime."

      A smile crossed his creased brown skin as he remembered his days with the "Blues Five".  Playing all over the Midwest . . . hardly a weekend off.  And the crowds - even whites - they all loved his jazz.

      "Wonder where Jimmy and the other boys are now."

      Shaking his head, he wiped off the slide, gathered up the last of the paper plates and turned to go.

      "Coupla more toilets, and that's it for today.  Home in time for the Braves' game.  Long as Sonny's not late again."

      He finished his rounds with the indifference that comes only with endless repetition and "set up" at the coffee table to wait for Sonny.  He'd just started on his fresh coffee when a small toy rolled to his feet.

      Looking up, he smiled at the girl of about eight approaching the table.  Then he bent over through the pain in his back, picked up the toy, and offered it to the child.

      "Here ya go, little one."

      Slowly, the girl drew nearer, her hand extended towards him. Her tiny fingers had just touched his when her mother grabbed her by the shoulder and almost lifted her off her feet.  Jerking the child aside, she whipped the toy from his hand, wiped it off on the skirt of her dress, and handed it back to her child.  Without a word, she propelled the girl away from the table, and dragged her up the aisle of the mall.

      Staring into his coffee, he shook his head and spoke softly, "You're welcome, M'am.  You're welcome."