Every day, the man sits beside Lake Michigan in a battered green camping chair. He sits quietly with his eyes closed and a line cast, waiting for a bite. His rod is old — close to ancient — and the flimsy tin tackle box on which he rests his tired feet was littered with dents. There is no telling his age, ethnicity, or anything else about him. He could be forty, fifty, even sixty years old. Most times, his face is at least partially obscured by the dirty tan hat that he wears. How he arrived in Chicago was, like many aspects of the man, a mystery. However, rumor had it the man immigrated from Cuba or somewhere nearby, possibly Guatemala. His heavy boots and aged skin reflect years of hard labor, while the dingy jacket he often wore pointed towards the fishing industry.

He spoke to no one, looked at no one, and bothered no one. His head remained towards the water, eyes calling to a past existing far beyond Lake Michigan and it’s murky depths. Regardless of the weather, the man sat and fished. He had no job, other than to keep the company of the gulls and the water. Life was simple, or at least it was until the boy arrived.

The boy and his gang of friends biked by the man sitting at the lake every day. They were children of the City, born kicking and screaming into a life of drinking and vandalism. It was in their nature. Born to parents who didn’t need them in a city with no place to put them, they reveled in the fact there was nobody who could tame them. An underfunded school system had tried its best, but naturally too many slipped through the cracks and onto the crowded city streets.

The boy — he was the worst of the worst. At twelve years old, he was destined for juvy. He went weeks between going home to his coked-out mom and abusive father. Did he choose this life? No, but these were the cards he was dealt. It was Fate, he liked to believe, and he would never let that bitch have the last laugh.

Whenever the boy passed the man, he would shout obscenities and cuss him out. It accomplished nothing, other than drawing a laugh or two from his friends. Of course, the man said nothing, refusing to look away from the water. Occasionally the boy would get off his bike and walk over to the man. He would stand behind the man, mocking him. “Have you caught nothin’ yet, you dumbass? You sit here for days, catchin’ nothin’ and wasting your life away next to this shitty old lake. This is why I ain’t ever wanna grow old. You’re pathetic.”

The man replied only once: “I am waiting.” His English was broken, but decent enough to be understood.

“Oh yeah? Well, keep waiting, you old shit.”

It was summertime in Chicago, midway through July, and the lake was packed. People were boating, swimming, and lying out on the beach. Oak Street, North Avenue, Montrose-- all packed with beachgoers of all types. The boy and his friends were in the water, laughing and playing like boys of such an age should. They sat on each other’s shoulders and pushed each other into waves created by boats and jet skis, enjoying the crisp coolness of the water. Without warning, a current grabbed ahold of the boy and dragged him underwater. His friends took no notice, as they continued to push and shove.

He was dragged out far into the lake, unable to surface for air. His parents had never taught him to swim, and panic clenched at his lungs and chest. This was how it would end. Out of nowhere, one of his flailing arms caught a hold of something — a fishing line!

He grabbed on desperately with both hands and felt the line being reeled in. It cut into his hands as he was dragged along, slicing into his palms and undoubtedly drawing blood. However, the momentary pain was but a small price to pay for possible salvation.

He began gasping for air the minute his head broke the surface, still unable to breathe. His heart was beating out of his chest, throbbing from a lack of oxygen. As he made it to the side of the pier, he felt rough hands grab his arms. Looking up, he was face to face with the man whom he had taunted so viciously.

The man pulled him from the water, exhibiting the strength of a man nearly 15 years younger. He laid the boy down and stood over him, observing him for a second or two. Then, the man set down his pole and began to silently fold up the chair. As he picked up his chair and his tackle box, the boy sat up and gathered enough air to speak. “Th-th-thank you. I-I-I’m sorry for those things I said, I ain’t mean none of ‘em. I owe you my life.” The man eyed him carefully. Without saying a word, he held his fishing pole out to the boy.

“Take it.” The boy shook his head.

“I could never—”

“Take it.” The man spoke with forceful conviction, and the boy reached out and took the pole. Without another word, he turned to leave.

“W-w-where are you going?”

“Home. My wait is over.”