It was a helluva Monday morning. The weather forecast said 80 degrees, so I threw on my summertime office attire: a pair of cropped cotton gray pants, a slinky light-weight flowered blouse, and my German-engineered sandals. At 7:30am, I walk to the train station in the brisk morning chill, shivering like a wet mule under the weight of my laptop, my French books, my lunch, and all of the personal accoutrements that I will need until I return home at 8:30pm.
On the train, I stand by the doors with my bags ratcheted between my legs, struggling to physically handle the New York Times while intellectually overcoming the distraction of the Spanish-speaking woman talking on her cell phone in a barrage of rapid-fire retorts. The train is running at reduced-speed through maintenance zones, and we arrive at South Station 50 minutes later.
I walk to my office, a billion ‘to do’ bullet points unorderly floating in my brain. Phone calls to make. Emails to write. Decisions. Decisions. Must buy stamps. Must buy new train pass. Must send birthday card. What’s for dinner tonight? What did I need to buy at CVS? Jesus Christ, did I do my French homework? And oh yeah… my job. Tee-hee.
I rush through a crosswalk just as the Don’t Walk sign stops its warning flashes, and come face-to-face with an elderly street person who is shaking a small Dunkin Donuts cup to rattle the coins within. He looks at me and grins. He doesn’t have any teeth. “Put on your red socks, darling, and let’s go dancing!” he booms, bobbing slightly in place.
I continue to walk. I make it about a block before I turn around, battling the stream of oncoming commuters that I am now walking against. I approach the panhandler from behind and drop a dollar in his cup. I sneak away. He is homeless, toothless, and carrying a cup of coins. He is the happiest-looking person I’ve seen all morning.
