Doorknobs

The funny little man went from house to house polishing doorknobs. He held the spray polish in one hand and the rag in the other. A small back pack contained more rags. He spoke to no one, kept his head down while walking, dressed too warmly for the weather. A fur cap had seen better days.
He was shorter than many of the kids going to school. In the beginning, they would poke fun at him. He never responded or lost his temper. He had work to do.
When people offered him money, he declined. Compliments were met with a slight nod. Since he never spoke, there was no evidence he was from their country. Of course, no evidence existed that he wasn't.
One surmised the man might have gotten more attention had he swept property or painted. Respect wasn't important to him. That's what we told each other. The completion of his rounds, eliminating germs, polishing to a sheen; those were his priorities. But because people were constantly going in and out, opening and closing doors, he must have grown frustrated at not being able to keep up.
How many of us can keep up anymore?
It is dangerous to diagnose depression, but by his slower movements and increasingly sloppy work, it became obvious the little man was unhappy.
The sun came up as suns do, and on that day Mrs. Hall, shaking out her dust mop on the stoop, happened to comment to the man that he missed a spot on her doorknob. One could imagine her doing this. She was that type.
This time our friend decided, rather than concentrate and polish harder, he would rip the mop out of her hands and beat her until his arms got tired. The screams woke up everyone.
They didn't have a straight jacket small enough, so they bound him with clothesline and put him in the back of one of those trucks that take you away from normal people. Mrs. Hall recovered and life went on. One couldn't help notice that, for awhile, people impulsively wiped doorknobs with their sleeves as they passed through. The sheen gradually was lost, as was the pungent polish aroma.