The trombone player is sitting in a doorway, playing poorly. This is his norm, though he’s been absent from Walnut Street for weeks. Perhaps the cooler temps drew him back. It’s humid and starting to rain, which will undoubtedly make busking a less profitable activity today. Sometimes, he comes in to the coffee shop to use the bathroom. The owners put a code on the doors to make it harder to access them. Eff them. I’ve shared the code a million times and will continue to do so.
Until we have safe, clean, accessible public toilets, businesses should recognize that they’re going to receive visitors who need a bathroom. I don’t care about the reasons businesses shouldn’t “have to” allow non-paying customers to use the bathroom. I may not be a Christian but even I know Jesus reminded people that how we treat the least among us is how we’re treating him; I feel really confident that he was including bathroom breaks in that.
Last week, a busker sat on a bench outside Blick, an art store up the street from the coffee shop. They had a guitar and an oil pastel. I didn’t ask; the implication, of course, is that they made it. I was walking by but paused to talk for a moment. They told me that their art supplies had been stolen. Could I give them some money to replace their supplies?
A pause here–I’ve been talking to unhoused and vulnerable people for years. I’ve even told some stories here about the lovely and, sometimes, terrible people I’ve met. Don’t allow media and Hollywood tell you what to think. There is not a single person on earth who woke up one morning and said “Gosh, I think I’ll stand on the corner and ask for money today because I’ll definitely take home more than I would if I had an “official” job. It’ll be fun. Everyone will be nice.”
Anyway, back to the busker. I introduced myself and asked what name they use, which I won’t share here to protect their privacy. (I actually had a brief internal debate about sharing their name on this blog but decided there was no justification.) Then, I gave them a choice–I could buy them supplies (I had an internal limit that I did not share) or give them the $20 bill I had in my hand. Art supplies cost a lot more than $20, as I told them. We talked for a bit longer and I decided to do both.
The folks at Blick told me to make an online donation (a ko-fi, for example) to the busker instead, though they readily helped me pick out some oil pastels and pencils. Blick staff thought they’d receive a visit from the busker later trying to return the art supplies for cash and told me they wouldn’t accept them back without my presence. I promised to warn my new acquaintance, which I did, when I handed them the bag. Total cost: the $20 bill and $41 in art supplies. Would I do it again? Yes, though I think I’d handle it a little differently. The choice I initially offered was unfair. If you’re hungry, you’re going for the food in front of you, not the promise of a cooking lesson.
Last week, I drove to Jeffersontown, Kentucky for an author talk. Before leaving on my trip, I stopped at the coffee shop to get a BIG iced tea for the road. I told the baristas that I was going to see if Mitch McConnell is actually alive because someone has to. It made them laugh, the intent of my comment, obv, but shouldn’t we feel deep grief that we’re at the stage of our democracy that politicians hide and lie?
The author talk–Christina Lauren, Susan Lee, and Nikki Payne–was a delight. I laughed a lot and bought more books for the TBR. (I’m going to live forever if my TBR is anything to go by.)
I probably talk too much about my food issues–malabsorption, from losing part of my liver (like I set my liver down on a counter and forgot to pick it up), but if you couldn’t absorb nutrients and most food made you feel like butt, you might also talk about it too much. Lol Anyway, I wanted something to eat and chose a steakhouse because if I’m going to be sick anyway, I might as well enjoy part of the experience.
The steaks were all about the same price. The restaurant was quiet, nearly empty on a Monday night. I told my server to ask Chef to pick the steak and prepare it as it should be. I chose my side–based on the server’s description–broccoli the size of trees. The whole meal cost me less than lunch for two at Steak and Shake (which was $55 last week with my dementia friend). The server and the manager came over to chat with me; they’re friends. She gave him a job because he just graduated from college and is still looking for something in his field. Chef gave me a free dessert, strawberry shortcake with homemade vanilla ice cream, and I gave the server a big tip. I took the dessert back to my hotel room and ate it with my hands because they forgot to give me a spoon. It was delightful.
Yesterday, I was in Erie, visiting N-Aunt Ginny. She was less present even than the last time I was in town two weeks ago. Our usual selfie tells the story. Her eyes aren’t seeing what we see. Visiting her breaks me into smaller and smaller pieces each time. I go there because she is as present as she can be and she deserves the best of my presence from me. And when I visit, I get to wipe her hands clean after lunch, like she did for me a long time ago. It is a gift, an honor, to be a trusted presence in someone’s life. Also, because I can always find something to laugh about, I have to tell you: She broke up with me at the end of our visit. I’m not sure which former boyfriend I represented but she let me down easy. And I told her, in turn, that I’d always love her, which is true.
Before going to the long term care facility to see N-Aunt Ginny, I stopped, as I usually do, at the candy store, Romolo. I was running late, due to some really bad traffic in Pittsburgh and several construction areas on the highway. It was 11:45AM. I didn’t want to miss lunch with her. So, I grabbed dark chocolate peppermint patties (N-Aunt Ginny’s favorites) and small gift boxes of chocolate for her three lunchmates. The line was unmoving. Usually, I just mind-wander while I’m waiting. Being in a hurry made me pay more attention, which I am delighted that I did.
The two young people–do you remember being that young? Perhaps you, dear reader, ARE that young–were making a purchase and didn’t have enough money. One of them ran outside to get more from their car. I stepped up to the counter, looked at the cashier, she nodded, and I tapped my card against the payment machine. The transaction went through–$20.75. The young many who was waiting at the counter realized too late what I was doing.
He was horrified. “No, noooo,” he said. “You didn’t have to do that.” I looked at him and said, “I wanted to.” (And not because I was in a hurry. I wasn’t in THAT much of a hurry.) His friend came running up with the additional dollar that they needed (yes, they had a $20 on the counter) and gasped when the $20 was returned. They both hugged me and promised to do something nice for someone else and then, they left, treat box in hand.
Here’s the thing: I will never be Mackenzie Scott or Beyonce or even a multi-millionaire. I don’t have a big, visible life. But I can make a difference for that person whose standing, embarrassed, at the register. It cost me $20.75, literally a lunch, to make two people smile like the sun just broke through the clouds. It isn’t even about the money. It’s about the community we form when we see the people around us, when we look up from our mind-wander or our scrolling or whatever and pay attention.
Much love.
