Our regular deal!

He knows my name is Donna, but he met Sylvia, my sister, first….and was smitten by her beauty.

“Hey Sylvia’s Sister, it’s Monday.”

After ten years of weekly conversations, exactly at closing time, you would think he would have shared his name or grown weary of our indistinguishable conversations. But his scruffy moustache, framing a cock-eyed mouth, rarely reveals his thoughts.

“Our regular deal today?”

“Absolutely! Go ahead,” I shout back, through the barely cracked coffeehouse door.

I’ve tried to broach the how, when, and why his life became so hard, but a crumpled brow and quivering lips, are the only answers I receive. Reaching back to social work days, I’ve offered suggestions for a place to get a donated winter jacket or tire for his bike. Consummately gracious, but shrouded, his thanks never divulge if he will actually seek help.

When demons have gotten the best of him, because he couldn’t get his prescribed drugs, or had self-medicated with Malt Liquor and Tylenol PM, I ask if he needs a ride to the Salvation Army Shelter. From his camouflaged pants pocket he pulls a Stephen King novel, with a library sticker, and a barely legible military ID.

Today, moved by his loyalty to come to work on such a cold-rainy afternoon, I pat him on the shoulder while handing him our ‘regular deal’… five one-dollar bills, and bag with a sandwich, fruit, and two cookies inside. Taking his hand, I compliment him on his commitment to his word. I praise him on being a good, honest man. I tell him I’m proud to be his friend. I thank him for the way the windows shine.

I speak from the heart, wanting him to hear that he matters.

My words devastate him, and as hard as he tries to stop his chest from heaving up and down and as quickly as he scurries to gather up his belongings, he can’t hold back the pain. Tears drenching his paper towel roll and bicycle handlebars….he cannot regain composure. His stained, but laundered “FUN IN THE FLORIDA SUN” sweatshirt sleeves now serving as both handkerchief and blindfold.

“Sylvia’s Sister,” his trembling, chafed hands pressed firmly to his face, hiding his mouth, muffling his words, “I used to be someone different. You’re my friend? You think I’m a good person?”

“I do,” I recite firmly, “you are all those things, but I’m so sorry I made you sad.”

Window Washer Man, his hard earned, bagged salary, tucked in a scuffed-up bucket does not respond. Loading sponges and glass cleaner into his frayed backpack, slinging it over his slumped shoulders; he pedals down the sidewalk, away from my coffeehouse window.
Turning off the “OPEN” sign, I lock the door, zip my jacket, and walk to the car.

It’s freezing outside!

I’m glad I snuck extra sandwiches and cookies in his bag, because he’s never accepted charity.
He’s too darn proud.