(From the storyteller's pen)
"Got a smoke, man?" A gravelly voice came out of the shadows. On this block, it neither startled nor scared me.
"Sorry, I don't smoke. Get you a cup of coffee?" Now that startled me, coming out of my mouth. I had three minutes to get back on the road or I'd be late. I hate being late.
"Sure whatever. Can I come along in to get it? Kinda chilly here." I looked at his frayed flannel shirt and tattered baseball cap. Compared to my leather coat and ski cap, it seemed frigid.
"Come on, we'll sit inside for a while." What am I saying? I don't have time to hang out with friends, much less strangers. And this man moved like he could handle himself in a fight.
We picked up our coffee at the bar and found a table. I watched as he added cream and sugar with the care and precision of a barista crafting a perfect cappuccino. This was a man who cared about the details of life. I wonder...
"So are you homeless, or do you just like to bum smokes outside coffee shops?" What am I saying? I don't talk like that. I smiled, hoping he would get the lame attempt at humor.
I met his quiet eyes, deep-set in a lined and worn face. I realized he was analyzing me, and that was unsettling somehow. Then his mouth twitched in a grin, and he pointed to the office building across the street. "See the light up there on the fourth floor. Little studio apartment. I take care of the building, so I get to sleep there."
"Just no money for cigarettes, I guess." Apparently that bothered me.
"I work security midnights at the WG warehouse over on southside. Buys food, clothes like this, and medication. And one brandy on Saturday night."
"But no smokes?" I was intrigued.
He sighed a resigned sigh. "I don't tell anyone about the cigarettes. Unless they need to know. I guess you need to know."
"I'm sorry, that's how we met, I didn't mean to be nosy."
"No, I find when somebody asks, they need to know. It's simple, really. I bum smokes to remind myself that I need help from people. I didn't used to know that."
Now I regarded him quietly. There was unexpected depth here. He nodded over at the office building again. "I used to own that building. This one too. And the warehouse where I work."
"Used to?"
"Got it all through hard work and listening to my gut. Did it on my own, so I thought. Course, life taught me otherwise."
I nodded. "Life has a way of doing that."
"Now I'm down to basics. I don't have much, but I'm not taking handouts."
"Except for cigarettes."
"I ask total strangers to give me cigarettes. It's good for the ego. And I don't even smoke. I trade them for my weekly brandy down at Jack's on the corner.
"You don't even smoke?" I was still confused.
"A man who won't give you money will still share his smokes. And it does something to you when you ask for something without having anything to give in return. Keeps you humble, I guess."
I nodded, speechless in the face of his simple wisdom. He stood, and extended his hand. "Hey man, thanks for the coffee. I still have to get my cigarette."
He ambled out to his post, leaving me agitated. He helped me more than I helped him. I hate to owe anybody anything. Even worse, now I knew what to do about it.
Ten minutes later, I watched the plaid shirt cross the street, tucking a cigarette safely in his pocket. I pulled on my cap, and took his place in the shadows, hoping to remain anonymous.
Five long minutes later, three teenagers came walking by. I took a deep breath and asked, "Hey man, you got a smoke?"
The one in front smirked, "We're too young to smoke, Pops."
But the skinny kid in the back pulled out a pack and handed me one. "Here ya go, man. Need a light?" I nodded, and we leaned close with the lighter between us. "Good luck, man," he said as he followed his friends.
"Thank you, thanks a lot." I walked to my car, smoking my first cigarette in twenty years. I stopped, and looked up at the fourth floor window. I think he saluted.
