Yesterday, I stopped to get gas after taking "Brad" to the airport. I pulled into the station on MLK, Jr. and met a man who introduced himself as John L. Smith. Here was this black man dressed in crumpled clothes and a baseball cap. He had long gray hair and the most beautiful smile I had seen in a long time. It was unreserved and filled with joy. John asked if he could clean my windshield and pump my gas for a couple of dollars. I agreed, and we fell into an easy conversation, him wiping down the window windshields, me paying for gas, all the while suspecting that neither party was fully honest as we wish we could be in all our human interactions. Concentrating on the windows, his eyes averted, John casually told me his brother older brother died several months ago*, that his sister just retired as vice principal of Skyline High in Oakland, and that he used to grow up in the Baptist Church but has long since become disenchanted with the philandering Deacons who preached hypocritical sermons.
(* Strangely enough, I asked about their age difference instead of asking how his brother died. Perhaps it was because I didn't want him to present for me such an elaborate tragedy. It felt easier to ask about the relationship that was instead of one that could have been.)
Why, I asked myself, did I even bother pretending to believe in this story? Perhaps I hoped that it was real, that he was indeed wrought with pain and sadness at the death of his sibling, which plummeted to deep depression, causing him to lose his job and home and thus forcing him to live on the streets. Throughout our conversation, knowing that he was feeding me these stories just to get some money, I didn't feel threatened or nervous. In fact, I felt comfortable, at ease, and incredibly light. After it was done, we shook hands in a firm grip, making eye contact and nodding to the fact that we were in collusion together. This, we performed splendidly. Before leaving, I pulled out a few bills from my wallet and handed them to him, thinking it was a couple of dollars. As he took the money, I realized I was handing him a $10 bill and several ones.
Before I drove off, he asked me what church I go to, and I told him, giving him the address to Chinatown. I invited him to visit the church, and while some people might say that I was foolish to give him that information, I hope that somehow, one day, something or someone else will remind him that he met with someone from that kind of community. I'm not naive enough to think I've changed his life. He's $15 richer, and I'm left with two credit cards, $3 in cash, and a handful of receipts. But, I'm certain we left that parking lot feeling buoyed by a lot more than just the money changing hands.
Maybe he was craving some conversation. Maybe I needed a reminder to be kind. Maybe both he and I benefited from that slight human contact, from that little exchange between one closed spirit and another.
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