The Balloon Man

Okay, so the title needs a little work. But anyways, I hope you enjoy this story. I'd really love to hear any feedback you might have, and thanks for reading!

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On the corner of Broadway and 27th stands a wizened old man.  His gnarled hands are wrapped around the wooden handle of an old cart, and a faded brown felt hat is planted firmly on his head.  But the important thing is the balloons. A giant flock of balloons rising to the sky in a flurry of translucent wings, tethered to the cart by shimmering plastic threads. The rainbow shadows they cast on the sidewalk dance merrily every time the wind blows. 

A little boy with black hair, wearing a rumpled red shirt, stands across the street.  As he eyes the balloons longingly, he tilts his head side to side as if weighing an important decision. His eyes light up for a second, as he nods, satisfied with himself. 

And then in a blur of red and black, he darts across the stone-paved street to the balloon cart. He swipes at the string of a red balloon as he passes the cart, running as fast as he can. The old balloon man watches through sleepy eyes, and it seems that the boy must surely escape. 

But the old man's hand whips out, grabbing the boy by the wrist and holding tight. The red balloon bobs back and forth on its string as the boy stumbles, yanked backwards.  

"Whaddya think yer doing?" the balloon man demands roughly.  "Nobody steals my balloons. If yeh've got money ter pay for it, the balloon is yers. Elsewise, yeh're comin' with me."

The boy stares at him, wide-eyed with fear. "I ain't got no money, sir," he says in a small voice. 

The balloon man says nothing, but begins to drag him along by the arm. Behind them, the balloon cart clatters noisily along the pavement.  

They walk and walk, and slowly the pleasant cottages and businesses are replaced by shabby buildings, the windows darkened by metal screens. 

"Mister, me mum'll wonder where I am," says the boy very quietly. 

The balloon man doesn't reply, just keeps walking. 

"Mister, I've gotta get home, it's gettin' dark," the boy says, a little louder. 

Still no reply, no sound at all but the clack of the cart on the stones of the sidewalk. 

"C'mon, mister, I'm sorry I tried to take the balloon," the boy begins. "I--"

"Well I'm sure yer sorry, now that I've caught yeh," interrupts the balloon man gruffly. "Now be quiet until we get to where we're goin'."

Dusk falls on the town, and the dim glow of street-lamps illuminates the streets. And still the boy and the balloon man walk, the cloud of balloons bobbing along behind them.  

The balloon man stops in front of a darkened house, and kicks down the stop of his cart.  "Sit down," he tells the boy, flipping on the porch light as he fumbles with his keys. 

The boy's curiosity has been awakened--he can't leave, not now that something's about to happen. So instead of running away as fast as he can, he obeys the old man and sits down on the stone curb. He kicks a stray pebble. He pulls a bit of string from his pocket and ties knots in it. He drums rhythms on the pavement with his fingertips.  

And then he looks longingly at the balloon cart. The red balloon that he had tried to take floats a little higher than the others, its string hastily tied to the handle of the cart. 

It would be so easy to take it and run... The balloon man was old. He'd never catch up. But still, the balloon man had also trusted him not to take anything...

The little boy makes up his mind. It is truly dark now, and the man obviously isn't coming back outside--the lights in what appear to be the kitchen have been turned off, and a dim glow emanates from an upstairs window (the bedroom, perhaps). Had this been some kind of test?

"Thank you, sir!" he calls as he stands up to leave.  He runs off into the darkness, happy. 

***

Early the next morning, a stooped figure wearing a battered felt hat shuffles to the cart.  The old balloon man smiles a little to himself as he releases the single red balloon flying a little higher than the others. It floats up into the sky, the tiny bit of color soon vanishing among the clouds. 

I'm opinionated. Or anyways that's what I like to think.

I'm crazy. At least, that's true part of the time.

I'm searching for who I really am, and who I really want to be. That's true all of the time.

Who you are changes with the people you're with. I suppose that that's one of the uncomfortable truths of life. You are not the same person with your boss as you are with your friends, or with your teachers, or with your parents, or with random people you pass on the street. To each one of them, you present a different version of yourself. Perhaps some of the versions are quite similar--but nobody ever meets the exact same version of you.

People all have something to hide.

People are ever-changing, ever-thinking, so that the person that they are is the person you expect them to be.

If you ever meet someone who is completely genuine... value them. Treasure them, because they have learned what the rest of us cannot--the art of being themselves.

Because I grew up.

Every time I realize that I'll never be seen as a little kid again, I wish that things were different.

Every time I realize that in the world of childhood, limits don't even exist, my heart breaks a little. Sometimes I wish that I were very young again. I wish to be innocent and carefree and ridiculously happy.

Then I think back to when I truly was young, and I wonder why my greatest wish then was to grow up. You see, growing up isn't everything it seems. Grown-ups don't always have the answers. Grown-ups are not unfailingly perfect. Grown-ups try and try and try, but they fail and they wish they were young again because then it wouldn't matter that they failed.

But when you're young, you don't know any of that. To be a grown-up is to be free of the rules and limitations that come with being a kid. Growing up is the ticket to freedom. Only when it's too late do you realize that you were better off where you once were.

But you can never go back.

Erised.

Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

I show not your face but your heart's desire.

This has to be one of the most powerful sections in J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series. This mirror, the Mirror of Erised, is the Mirror of Desire. It reflects the viewer's deepest desires, laying them out and playing their secret dreams on its glassy surface. This mirror sees more clearly than any human. It sees the heart and the heart's deepest desires alone.

Honestly, the rest of the world would do well to follow the initial actions of the mirror--to look not at a person's exterior, but at the inner chambers of their heart. Who are they, what do they value, what makes them them?

However, the mirror also creates a hold on the viewer so strong as to pull them from reality and into the dream-world of the fantasies of paradise and happiness that it creates. Here lies the danger--if you see a place where you could be utterly happy, wouldn't it be so much easier to simply stay there?

Reality is painful. Yet the only grim advantage that it has over the perfection of fantasy is that it is always, always undeniably present.