revelations

The last time I saw him he was standing off to the side of the farmer’s market in Copley Square. A sentinel of stillness amidst a commotion of hands reaching into coolers for apple cider, into bails of Hubbard squash. Adjusting something in his backpack, he suddenly looked up—he looked right at me. And he waved. I waved back, and smiled. Continued on my way to work.

This morning he was outside Back Bay station in a camouflaged winter coat. Same backpack, a trash bag and worn bundles at his feet. Maybe the tenth or fifteenth time I’d seen him since I started working at Pearson. And just like every other time—whether I was walking alone or within a crush of people—he found me. His gaze was peaceful.

As I walked toward him, he said hello. A mild, tranquil hello like we were distant neighbors who’d been tilling the same fields for years. I said hello back, slowly, in as soothing a voice as possible.

Mid-stride I asked, “How are you?” and then felt sorry because maybe that was an insensitive question. Maybe that was too simple and too big of a question to ask him. He said he was doing well, “And how are you?” he asked and I said, “Good.”

I walked toward Dunkin’ Donuts, the one that’s right inside the station. My dad had given me nearly 40 bucks in gift cards over the holidays, passed on from the kids on his bus. In line, I looked out the window, thought about how blisteringly cold it’s been.

I bought a medium coffee, extra milk, no sugar. And then what would he want? A medium coffee. It would be insulting to get him something smaller than what I’d ordered. With milk and sugar.

I never do anything like this. I don’t reach into my wallet for spare change. I always doubt the validity of the despairing need for 5 more dollars to get on the commuter rail. Call it heartless, call it selfish, call it completely inhumane to just pass by, shutter my heart, untouched and unaffected in the homeostasis of my privileged, comfortable life. It is all these things.

But something about this man’s eyes, the way he appears to set me apart.

It was early enough in the morning that something so mystical didn’t seem so half-baked. What was he trying to tell me?

I was suddenly nervous with my two coffees, walking awkwardly with my gym bag dangling off my left elbow, my oversized purse inching toward the edge of my shoulder. Although constantly aware of it I was shamefully aware of it now—was it really necessary to carry so much shit?

Outside, he hadn’t left. He was turning through pages of the Metro. I quietly approached and said as confidently and casually as possible, “Hey, I got you a coffee.”

He turned, the familiar gaze. Slow to start, he warmly said, “I do appreciate your generosity. That is very kind of you,” but he wasn’t reaching for the coffee I was offering. He continued, “I don’t use anything with agents. Bless you, but also, I do not take part in commercial institutions. But bless you for your kindness.”

Or something to that effect. Because I was smiling nervously, I was nodding and walking away while saying, “Yes, okay, alright,” and “Have a good day,” with a gravity of tone I hadn’t used in years. It was a tone of bewilderment, guilt, and respect. It was a tone of knowing that on a very real level this man was far more enlightened than me.

It was a tone of damn it, Amanda, you should have known that it wouldn’t be right, or enough. You woke up this morning with the arms of someone you love around you. You woke up in a warm, Queen-sized bed with sheets that had been misted with Egyptian Cotton bed sheet spray. You own bed sheet spray. As if you could ever understand what kind of mornings this man has. As if a coffee would make a Goddamn bit of difference.

I wanted to tell him that I was only buying coffee on my way to work because I have these gift cards. I wanted to tell him that otherwise I’d use my French press at home, or that I’d use the coffee machine in my office. I wanted to shout, We really are kindred spirits—I don’t usually do this.

Pausing outside the Copley Fairmont I put the coffees down, readjusted my bags. Secured my scarf around my neck in the wind. Reminded myself as I carried on “The cup in my left hand is my extra milk, the cup in my right is his.”

But it wasn’t.