A gift of kindness June 8, 1985

 

I didn’t expect kindness.

Some rich folks stopped me on the street, offering me coffee and some place to go.

They saw me huddled in the hollow of the closed storefront doorway to get out of the rain, waiting for someone to come with the key so I could get inside.

Unlike other Fotomats, this store predominantly handled the film needs of wealthy people, who not only came into the store bringing their development needs, but a superior attitude that grinded on my nerves. I preferred the store in Clifton or Garfield that handled largely a blue-collar crowd, pain in the asses sometimes, but never superior beings.

The rich woman who approached m actually looked concerned, even though I knew she mistook me for being homeless, not a clerk – and perhaps would have treated me less kindly.

She most likely had never met a homeless person, even though a short trip to a neighboring down would have introduced to her to many.

The rain disguised me, and she no doubt mistook the big brown bag I carry books in for something I carried spare clothing – as she assumed all homeless did.

Liberals like her tended to treat the down and out with more respect than people who actually provided them services, and I saw such pity in her eyes I thought maybe I should correct her mistake, knowing how it would bring down her mask of indifference again, might even make her angry thinking I had somehow hoodwinked her into showing compassion.

I said nothing, accepting her gift of coffee, but did not accept her offer to find me shelter.

She nearly cried at my response, as her husband went up the street to collect my warm cup of brew.

I prayed Safire would not show up with the key and spoil the illusion, ruining this perfect moment for this perfect couple, stealing from them the good feelings they would carry away with them after their act of charity.

It was very surreal – me doing my best to give them comfort, to relieve their guilt at having achieved, to do for them by letting them do something for me, a stage play with only me knowing it was all an act. And when they put the warm cup in my hands, I watched their grateful faces glow, watched them walk away self-satisfied, having done something that mattered for once in their lives.

 

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email to Al Sullivan

 

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