A thick layer of nimbostratus clouds blanketed the December sky, adding insult to the sub-zero injury of a late-autumn cold snap. Without a visible fiery yellow ball in the sky to comfort me and warm my cheeks, I shivered impotently against the wind chill as I exited the art space and headed down Gottingen Street in search of food. In my pocket sat exactly $2, just one lonely coin, but of course I had access to more dollars via debit and credit. Still, I held onto the coin as I walked; cash in hand, to me, is always a comfort.
The wind showed no mercy and, in fact, picked up its speed and force as I waited to cross at a quiet intersection. No one around but me and one other man whose gaze was palpable from half a kilometer away; no big buses or other traffic to break the wind. There were two cafes just up ahead. Surely one or the other would have just what I was looking for…
The beret wrapped snugly around my skull wasn’t cutting it. It was made of wool, sure, but it didn’t cover my ears. My ears are my Achilles heel. Take me to an Atlantic coastal beach on a windy day in June and I’ll leave with a massive earache - that is, unless I wear a nice big wool cap large enough to cover my ears. Wool cap at home, and wool beret on head; wool trench at home, and faux fur leopard coat on my back: I was not warm enough for this minus 8 degree nonsense. I was nowhere near home, but at least I was near two presumably warm and cozy cafes.
The man whose gaze I’d felt suddenly appeared right in front of me. He crossed the street from one direction as I crossed from the other. As he reached proximity, he stopped and said, “Excuse me?” Although the question mark is politely inferred, as he stated his request rather assuredly, in the way that people who have to say the same phrase dozens of times a day often do. I had stopped as well, to hear his query. He smiled. I smiled back.
“Got a few dollars for me?” he asked, again, more as a statement. Without hesitation, I pulled my right hand out of my thrift store jacket and placed the $2 coin in his hand. He collected it instantly, simultaneously uttering a sentence I recalled this morning as I washed my breakfast dishes, having just read a Shirley Jackson short story “One Ordinary Day, With Peanuts.” He said the sentence with no hesitation - again, with the absolute certainty of a person who tells people this every day, multiple times a day. He said this collection of words without his earlier smile; that facade had recoiled like a roller blind on a sunny morning as soon as I had laid the $2 in his hand.
He said: “You can do better than that.”
This happened thirteen months ago, and yet, I still think of this man occasionally.
“You can do better than that.” He wasn’t wrong; in many ways, I could have done better. I could have taken him to a bank machine with me. I could have offered to bring him to the cafe. I could have asked for his email address and e-transferred him something more; something “better.” I could have invited him into the maker’s market at which I found myself working that afternoon, shivering in my giant coat whilst selling almost nothing and coming out of the experience in the red.
I could have done more.
I could always do better.
I could have danced out of that market with a twirl, thankful for my fun vintage coat and my warm, comfortable shoes and cute cheap beret. I could have grinned at the lack of harsh, unforgiving sunlight and relished the diffuse glow of an overcast day in the city, marveling at my great fortune to have such an interesting life as I burst into a cozy cafe exclaiming, “Good day, everyone!” I could have walked or driven a couple of kilometers to the nearest bank machine and withdrawn whatever felt reasonable for the day, and doled it out gleefully to the few passersby I encountered on my fabled walk to the cafe, including and especially this particular man in the tattered army jacket with what appeared to be a pastel baby quilt shoved underneath it for warmth.
I could have said to him: “Take this $50 and do whatever your heart most desires. You need it more than I do!”
Instead, I raised my eyebrows, said “Actually, I can’t,” and smiled again. He did not smile back, but, instead, walked off muttering. I didn’t wonder what he did with the $2, but I did ponder fully the insignificance of $2 in today’s economy as I walked into a café and ordered two sandwiches, one for me and one for my husband, and two drinks we technically couldn’t afford and yet, somehow, we could.
I was still pondering the $2 dilemma when I walked back down the street and spotted the man again, up ahead another half-kilometer in the opposite direction. Nobody else was around on this colourless day to ask for more money from except for me. I saw him notice me and start muttering again, gesticulating more excitedly in my direction this time, though, and instead of heading towards him back to my workplace-of-the-day, I re-entered the café. Once inside, I sat down, and took one of the turkey sandwiches I had ordered “To Go” out of its paper bag and ate it to completion, knowing that the man would have moved on by the time I finished.
My wife faces this at her grocery store all the time. It is a shame he said that to you Jackie,,,he should have thanked you and moved on,,,, 😎 Bob from Michigan