The other day while heading to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription, I chanced upon an older gentleman. He looked to be in his late 60s to early 70s, silver hair, wearing cargo pants and carrying a backpack. He was trying to get the attention of other pedestrians, saying “Excuse me, but may I ask a question?”
People kept walking past him, not even bothering to look at him. He was a couple of doors up from the pharmacy, so I figured I’d talk to him after I got my prescription, but when I walked in, something told me not to wait. As I’m one to follow my gut, I went back out and approached him.
“Where do you need to go?” I asked, figuring it’s always best to assume someone is just lost.
“Oh, hello. I’m trying to get to the Super 8 around here. I think it’s over by XYZ Road not far from the [landmark].”
“Hmmm, I’m not familiar with that. I know there’s one around here but I don’t know the street address.”
I got out my phone to look it up.
“Okay, yes, it’s at ABC road, two blocks after XYZ Road. Just keep going down this street until you get to 123 Street, make a right, and it’s about four blocks up.”
“Thank you! Did you know they have a special discount for homeless veterans?” he asked. “There’s a lady there who runs the place and it’s not advertised.”
“Oh, I didn’t know that.”
He looked down at his shoes for a second, then looked at me, his face red.
“I haven’t had a shower in two weeks. So I’m hoping she has a room. Two weeks. It’s driving me nuts,” he said. Then his voice broke. “I just want to be clean.”
I remembered that I had an emergency $50 and other cash in my wallet in preparation for taking Rodrigo to the vet, as I pay the driver in cash.
“How much is the room?” I asked.
“$46.99.”
I pulled out a $50 and handed it to him. “There’s your night.”
“REALLY? Oh, wow. THANK YOU!” Tears sprung to his eyes. “Oh, WOW. I will be thinking of you and being grateful for you tonight! What’s your name?”
I told him.
“That’s great. There was a show in the 70s, do you remember it?” He named the show. “There was a character with your name in it.”
“Yeah, I do! I used to watch that when I was a kid. It was funny.”
“All of those shows were great,” he said, naming a few others. As we spoke and reminisced about 70s sit-coms, I noticed he was still holding the $50 bill in his hand. I think he was more excited to talk to someone than he was about the money. I could see the light come into his eyes.
“By the way, you probably want to put that away,” I said. “I don’t want anyone to try to take it from you or hurt you for it.”
“Good idea.” He put it in one of this leg pockets, carefully zipping it up and patting down the flap over the zipper.
“Wow. I can’t wait to take a shower,” he said. “Zennie, you are an angel, and I will never forget you,” he said. “My name is Ray. Ray [Last name]. You get home safe now, okay?”
“Ray, I hope you have a nice night.”
He proceeded to walk down the street.
I went into the pharmacy and cried in the make-up aisle.
See, he never asked me for money. Maybe he was planning to, or working up the courage to, but maybe he was only looking for directions. Or maybe he just wanted someone to talk to for a few minutes. I’ll never know. But what I do know is that it’s tragic and cruel how people will not even acknowledge another human’s existence. He looked like any other Boomer I know, the ones I work with or have gone hiking with or any of my older friends’ husbands, but with a two-week beard growth on his face and sadness and shame in his eyes.
Meeting Ray was a reminder that it costs nothing to give a moment of time to someone in need, even if we aren’t in a position to provide help in a tangible way. It’s behaving as though those less fortunate do not exist, like they’re all trying to scam us, or like they somehow deserve what has befallen them that carries a price, for when we forget another’s humanity, we lose our own.
zenzalei 