Seeking Warmth

With a bit of trepidation I touched his shoulder. He didn’t move, didn’t recoil, didn’t raise his head where I could see his eyes deep in the shadows of his hoodie cowl.  With his legs stretched or his head bent and propped in his hand, he had been there every morning since the night temperatures reached down into the small numbers.  The coffee shop had to feel like a morning oasis if his nighttime was spent outdoors.

Since he didn’t move, I looked more closely.  I wanted to be sure his chest was rising and falling or wanted to see a twitch of his fingers.  His tall fur-lined boots sat next to his chair.  He always chose the seat near the corner – out of sight of the cashier.  Two backpacks were tucked close, one under his leg and the other touched by his left hand dangling down.  A paper cup with a plastic lid and the Roasterie logo sat on the floor but well within reach.  For more time than manners would allow, I stared.  Nothing moved.  Then his chest rose and a tiny snore escaped his lips.

I had only touched him to return a napkin to his well-ordered pile.  But sleep may have been more important than his meager possessions.  I left.

By two mornings later the frost had staked its claim to the first several inches of earth as the daytime temperatures never broke through thirty-two.   I needed coffee.  He was there, in his chair.  It was only minutes since the neon “Open” light had been turned on.  Arranged around him were all of the same things, the tall boots and backpacks but his hoodie was covered with another layer, a quilted nylon coat with a Pittsburgh Panthers logo on the chest. 

He was writing, speed writing.  As fast as his fingers could move, he filled every inch of an unfolded paper napkin and then flipped it to the other side for his story to continue.  The marks on one side bled into the back.  His mysterious markings soon became blobs and streaks.  But his work continued, napkin after napkin.  When one was completed it took its place in the neatly square pile atop his backpack.  As I was headed out I tapped his shoulder to give him a nod.  It had been one of his napkins that I’d wanted to return that first day.  He didn’t look up, didn’t twitch his shoulder, didn’t slow his panic writing on napkin after napkin.  I nodded anyway and left. 

The day after Christmas, there he sat upright and holding a full cup of coffee.  Moving robotically, his right arm lifted the drink to his lips and returned to its appointed place.  Through the ice blurred front windows, his eyes were focused a thousand yards west.  Nothing distracted his attention, nothing moved except his right arm.  His fingers were grimy, dirt maybe ink, but his face was clean and shaved.  His possessions stayed close and were set in their same order.  I touched his shoulder and said hi.  He didn’t nod, nor smile, nor twitch.  I smiled and left. 

Early the morning before New Year’s Eve, he was there.  He was writing.  One of his napkins had floated away from the pile when a push of cold wind came in with the rushing patrons and eddied the air in the coffee shop.  It lay on the floor a few feet from his chair.  If he noticed its departure, he made no gesture of angst or retrieval.  As I was headed to the door, the heel of one of the arriving customers caught his napkin and left a mud smudge over a quarter of it.  I picked it up, brushed it off.  I touched his shoulder to show him I was putting it back on his pile.  He didn’t say thanks, didn’t nod, didn’t pause his writing of new pages. 

My confusion was piqued.  My first trepidation was the kind that comes when what you should do, ought to do, bumps up against teachings about keeping strangers at a distance – even if those teachings were from a youth decades ago.  Some things get ingrained.  Having tried to connect, perhaps to help, to understand, to do the right thing, I was adrift without a clue about what should come next.  On pure impulse, I took out a twenty dollar bill, and laid it on his pile of napkins.  I did not touch his shoulder, did not speak nor nod.  He didn’t either.  I left.

My car was parked a block away and headed in the wrong direction.  The cold seemed to kill the warmth of my coffee before I could get in and settled with the bun warmer on and the heat set at 74.  Still trying to figure out what I should have done, I put the car in gear to go around the block to get headed toward the office.  When I rounded the corner, I saw him standing outside with his tall boots on, both backpacks slung over one shoulder and his hoods drawn tight.  He walked a few steps toward the market and just as he got to the entrance, he stopped.  

He reached in his pocket and pulled out a crisp bill and put it in the Red Kettle.  He nodded, he smiled, he pulled on some gloves.  He left.

--td