"Can çıkmayınca huy çıkmaz" - Habits don't expire until the soul expires

Altan was in a better mood this week - the rain had lifted for the most part, and the sun always reminded Altan of home, which made him think of simpler times. He tottered through the door of the mosque and out onto the street, his still sore, swollen wrist tucked into the front of his jacket. Like Napoleon, he thought, and he smiled a little, thinking about what it would be like to be an emperor, rule the world, and not have to worry about money...

Osiris Stien was walking toward Altan, eyes forward and cold, not seeming to register his surroundings. Altan nodded to the other man as they passed one another.

"Good afternoon Mr. Stien!" Osiris said nothing nor gave any other sign of acknowledging Altan's presence. He proceeded purposfully into the mosque behind Altan. Altan sighed, disappointed. No one seemed to take notice of him without his coffee cart. Not that many people did when he was with it, but someone always came by to ask him the price of a cup ("25¢ as always!") or tell him he was only wearing one sock ("Oh me, how unprofessional..."). It was human contact that Altan looked forward to most in his job. He had grown up in a very friendly home and it was something he had just gotten used to. Altan had become accustomed to the social detachedness of Americans over the years, so he was just happy for someone to look in his direction. He would always respond with a smile, or a nod, or a wave.

But Altan had been without simple human contact for at least a month now, and he was beginning to feel strained and stressed. Not only did Altan miss people, he was missing rent payments, and the bills were piling up on his floor by the door in his apartment. He'd just received a notice today, in person (which brought about an exuberant smile on his weathered face when he opened the door), that he had a week to pay 50% or he'd be evicted. This of course doused the weak flame of cheer that had sparked from the simple conversation, making Altan realize that the money aspect of his job was important too.

He would start again tomorrow, he decided, on Monday, a normal weekday. He had been out all day, getting the feel for the streets again, figuring out where the masses were congregating. At this moment in time, it happened to be at the carnival in the empty lot at the end of the street. Altan stood and watched it from a distance, listening to the screams of people, the groaning of machinery, and the general hum that surrounds large crowds. Cars, tracks, swings, and boats from the carnival's various rides flew up and down through the air or were silhouetted against the red sky. The whole entity resembled a giant, prehistoric sea monster, thrashing about in colorful, volatile primordial soup.

The fact that this is where everyone wanted to be, amidst the most excitement the town had seen in years, proved unlucky for Altan. No one would notice him and his coffee cart in the crowd of carnival attractions. They'd most likely (as Altan unfortunately knew from experience) assume he was a part of a gypsy caravan and either ask him to tell them their fortunes or beg to be whisked away into a land of wild living and adventure. As Altan could do neither, they'd just grunt, scowl, or curse and leave without buying anything. No, carnivals were not for Altan; he'd just have to attract customers as they entered and exited the festivities.

The next morning, anyone who went out at 6:00 AM would have seen a little, brown man, possibly a gypsy, setting up a cart right in the middle of the entrance to the carnival. He skipped around, locking things into place, taking out cups, mixing spices, and boiling water. It was Altan, and he was ready for whatever the day would bring. He stood there armed with his coffee cart, his entrepreneurial skills, and a large, bright smile upon his face.