Hey everyone. This is an idea I've been kicking around for a while now and thought I'd finally share. This is based on the true story of an encounter I had with a homeless man a few years ago, and the events that transpired afterwards.
I hope you enjoy it
She walked past him after every shift at the Pharmacy. He'd stare despondently ahead, dark eyes seeing nothing while the people walking by pretended not to see him.
At first Clarke was the same. He'd be sitting at the corner between Burrad and Davie, a ceramic bowl clutched in his hands that he kept his begged for change in. His hair was shorter back then, but the months had turned it grimy, shaggy around his shoulders, the grease adding a shine to the bedraggled dark locks. The clothes he'd find were puckered with holes and he had no shoes, then or now, so he'd sit cross-legged and periodically shift his legs to keep his feet from freezing. He had no dog, no cart full of whatever he could pick up or cardboard sign begging for coins.
The only things that never changed were that corner and the bowl.
She'd walk past him. She'd do everything anyone new to a city would do. She'd quicken her pace and hold her bag closer as she hurried by, doing everything in her power to avoid eye contact. She only ever saw him going home from the Pharmacy. It was the only time she went to that part of town, her college schedule keeping her closer to the city centre throughout most of her week. Being a pre-med student stretched her pretty thin, she didn't leave her apartment much other than for work, or the occasional group study session. But she rarely went to those anyway. The other students talked over lecture recordings, ordered food that would leave grease stains on her study notes. They were a distraction, a fresh perspective at best, so Clarke persisted through each group session.
The weeks turned into months, then the first year moulded into the second. Her schedule didn't change much, and she settled into a routine. Her hurried pacing slowed down, walking by the man on the corner like he was another mailbox or street sign. He found new clothes every few weeks. Never shoes. He grew a beard once. It came in patchy before sprouting, matching his dark hair. He'd hacked it away a few weeks later.
Same bowl. Same corner.
Fifty two weeks. Coming and going. Always the same corner.
It was on week eighty four that he finally spoke to her.
She was waiting for the crosswalk to turn green. The streets were almost bare, as they usually were on her walk home from the evening shift, especially as summer rolled into colder months. Flu medicine sales would soon be rising. She'd have to start making half off signs.
Her foot tapped impatiently. The bag of mini donuts and chicken ramen she'd bought at the seven eleven a block down bounced against her leg. Were they making these things slower? Clarke was sure that they were.
"Excuse me, miss?"
Clarke turned. It was the first time she'd seen him standing, and he towered over her. Despite all the times she'd walked by him, noticed his changes and lack of, the first thing her senses registered was the smell. This was the only time he'd ever been close enough for her to catch a whiff, and he smelt like stale garbage that got stuck to the bottom of the can. The only reason she didn't recoil was because she would of fallen off of the curb if she did.
His chest was barely covered by a vest three sizes too big for him, drooping to expose skin tanned by the summer sun. She hoped he'd be able to find something to keep him warm during winter, or at least something that fit him properly.
"Yes?" she asked, despite all her instincts not to engage him.
"Do you know The Keg?" the man asked.
Clarke shook her head. As the man opened his mouth again, she carried on over him. "I-I just moved here a year ago for college. I don't know the area well outside the Chinese takeout on my block."
The man smiled at her joke, teeth stained. "I don't need directions. Do you like steak?"
"I love steak," Clarke replied instantly, blushing at her eagerness. She hadn't been able to afford anything close to a steak since she started college, unless cheap cheeseburgers counted.
The man's smile widened, his weathered skin crinkling around his eyes. They sparkled with something, something that looked like happiness. "The Keg is a steakhouse. A lady outside gave me this." He produced a sleek black card from his pocket, holding it face up. It was a gift card, still in its original two pieces. A fifty dollar gift card. "I can't use it. They won't let me inside looking like, well..." He gestured to himself, shrugging in a self deprecating way. "Do you want it?"
The crosswalk turned green. A woman bustled past, walking between the two people but only excusing herself to one of them.
Clarke's jaw dropped. He held out the gift card and she grabbed for it. She flipped it over. The back was clean, the card number still protected by the metal seal you scratched off to activate the card. It looked impeccable, and the excitement built in Clarke's stomach at the thought of her first steak dinner in months.
"Thank you!" she breathed, looking up from the gift card to the homeless man. He was still smiling at her, soft and pleased. She spied ribs peaking against his skin, and felt the rush of excitement fade into a guilty gratitude. She didn't have much to offer, but she wanted to try. "Do you want some donuts?" she asked, opening her bag. Would he prefer plain or chocolate glazed?
"Actually I'd really prefer a few dollars." Clarke's hand stilled. When she looked up, the man's smile had turned earnest and pleading. "Just enough for a hostel," he amended quickly.
Clarke paused, feeling uncomfortable. She'd always been told not to bother with strangers, with the homeless people only looking to score drugs. Her mother had taught her to be sensible. But her father had always taught her to see the good in people. This man could easily sell this for more, and yet he only wanted a few dollars for it. She should consider herself lucky he ran into her instead of someone else. But she knew her wallet by weight more than content, and it was perpetually light. She had some coins, maybe a few dollars worth, but that was a loose maybe.
And one twenty dollar note.
He must of read the reluctance on her face, his own crumpling, looking pathetic in his pleading. "A hostel is like five bucks."
Lost, Clarke opened the change compartment of her purse. her fingers sifted through the coins. A dollar seventy five and a Canadian dollar she kept for luck. She dumped the contents into the man's palm.
He looked up at her, disappointment heavy in his eyes. "That gift card is fifty dollars."
Clarke's heart sank the same moment her cheeks flared in embarrassment. "I-I don't have anything smaller. Anything else would be ridic-" she stammered before cutting herself off.
"I have change," the man said quickly, and produced five dollars and a few coins, adding to Clarke's pile. "I literally need only a few dollars. I want a roof. I just want a shower, I want to be clean."
Cheeks aflame, a hot choking feeling gripping her throat, Clarke pulled the twenty out of her purse and hurriedly swapped it for the change. It was only ten dollars, what could be the harm? Especially for a fifty dollar steak dinner. And, if Clarke was being completely honest, she wanted to get this over with as fast as possible.
The man's face lit up, and Clarke's embarrassment faded considerably. "Thank you so much. You're a saint."
"I'm a pre-med student," Clarke said, flushing for a whole new reason.
The man chuckled shortly, pocketing her twenty dollars. "I'll let you be on then, Miss Pre-Med."
Before she could reply the man turned and went back to his corner, plopping down on crossed legs. He picked up his ceramic bowl and began plucking coins from it, pocketing them as well.
The crosswalk turned green again. Clarke turned and hurried across before she could miss it once more. As she hurried up her street, she looked over her shoulder. The man was gone from his corner, the ceramic bowl sitting on its own, until he hurried back and snatched it from the floor, clutching it possessively. He noticed her watching him, and waved with the hand holding the bowl.
Clarke stood just inside the doors to the Keg, next to a till with a sign reading "Please wait to be seated" written fancily in white chalk. Rustic and classy all at once, with a heavenly, heady, meaty smell drifting through the kitchen doors. Clarke liked this place.
It had been three days since her encounter with the man on the corner. She hadn't seen him since, so he must of been able to get in that hostel. It made the pride in her chest swell. She'd done that, and maybe it would finally be a step in the right direction for him. He could leave his corner and start a real life. All because of her. She clutched her black gift card like a trophy. Maybe they'd let her keep it after it had been used, a memento of her good deed.
Her hair was pinned up and she was dressed in a black dress that dipped in the back as well as the front and hugged her ribs and bust, but began to flare out at her waist and stomach. She anticipated needing room for this meal. A tight dress would be as useful as a bucket with a hole in the bottom., useless at its primal function. In this case, an unflattering waist line. She knew she was drawing eyes. She thought she'd be annoyed by the attention but truth be told it had been years since she'd had something to dress up for, or someone, and the flutter in her belly was anything but annoyance.
The waitress came over to the stand, smiling cheerily through pinched, made up cheeks. Clarke wondered how long the girl had been on shift for as she typed through the keys on the electronic board.
"Name?"
"Griffin," Clarke answered, voice clipped and formal sounding against the girls chipper tone. She sounded like her mother, years ago when she would attend dinners and fundraisers. She scowled as memories of that lift tried to invade her brain, before quickly forcing a more relaxed smile to her lips as the girl found the reservation.
"Clarke Griffin for eight thirty," she announced. She squinted at the screen, leaning forward slightly. "It says here you have a gift card." Clarke nodded. "For security reasons, I need to see the card."
Clarke fished it out of her purse and handed it to the young woman. She took it and scanned it through the swipe system. Something beeped, a deep minor tone that dropped heavily in Clarke's stomach. The waitress smiled awkwardly at her before trying again, producing the same note.
"I'm afraid it says this card has already been activated," she said in a small voice that was used to being yelled over.
"What?" Clarke asked. A couple behind her coughed, the man hiding his chuckle poorly.
"This card has been used," the girl clarified.
"But he said one of you gave this to him as a promotion," Clarke stammered, her confusion and growing humiliation distorting her logic. This waitress wouldn't know the 'he' she was talking about. Explaining herself, passing off the blame, just helped.
The waitress raised a sleekly trimmed eyebrow. "Who would hand out fifty dollar gift card promotions?"
Clarke couldn't answer. She was dressed like a woman in control, but she felt like she was spiralling, slipping and falling past every hand hold. She had nothing to hold onto and nowhere to pass the blame.
The waitress seemed to pick up on her turmoil. She tapped something out, then walked out from behind the stand. "I've called the manager. If you could wait at the bar, we'll try and sort this out."
Clarke nodded, her brain numb, firing off different excuses, different reasons for her stupidity. She was overworked, stressed from school. Not thinking straight after a long shift. Before she knew it, she was sitting on a bar stool, staring at the deep rich wood.
He'd watched from his corner.
He'd approached her.
Every reaction ready and rehearsed.
And she'd given him every opening. He hadn't needed to use a single line.
"Hey, lady!"
The harsh bark snapped Clarke out of her stupor. The man she guessed was the bar tender was glaring at her. Had he snapped his fingers at her? He must of, because when Clarke didn't respond, he leaned over the bar and snapped them again in her face.
"What are you drinking? Or have you had enough already?" he grumbled, his voice so deep it could repair the glass an opera singer shattered.
"Excuse me?" Clarke asked, coming back from reeling at her own stupidity.
The barman, though he looked barely older than her, rolled his eyes. "Jesus." He pulled up a short glass, poured in a shot of vodka then filled the rest of the glass with cranberry juice. He dropped it in front of her unceremoniously, some of the concoction spilling over the edge and onto his tanned fingers. "There."
He then stomped off down the bar before she could protest, wiping his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder. Clarke watched him go, watched him lean across the bar and start chatting to a girl that was dressed like Clarke, made up like Clarke, only she responded to his charms. He was nice to her, especially when she tipped with a ten dollar note, a separate white sheet attached to it that the bartender slipped into his pocket.
Clarke turned back to her drink. She sipped it slowly, not even bothering to mix it, so she ended up sipping the vodka clean from the drink, left with the sickeningly sweet cranberry juice and time to mull over her stupidity once more.
This time she registered when another man approached her. He was made up, hair slicked back and suit spotless. Pristine to the point of looking like he'd stepped out of a printing machine. He had her gift card in his hands and a stern look on his face.
"Young lady," he opened with, like she was a child being punished, and, if possible, Clarke's heart sank even more. "Here at Keg we do not tolerate scam artists. Trying to pass off a used gift card as a creditable one could be seen as a criminal offence."
Clarke's heart leapt into her throat. She'd lose her college placements. She could be expelled. She'd be fired from her job. Arrested. Thrown in Jail. She wouldn't survive in prison, she couldn't pull a Piper Chapman.
"Fortunately, we are a forgiving restaurant." The man in the suit sighed and flipped the card over. "Lucky for you, you left the scratch back untouched. That gives us reason to believe you didn't attempt to change the authentication code. You were simply the victim of a vagabonds gambit."
"What?" Clarke asked. Who talked like that?
"Means you were duped, Princess," the bar tender laughed as he cleaned a glass.
"Your job is to serve drinks, not crack jokes," the man in the suit snapped.
The bartender glared, but shut his mouth, moving back down the bar to serve the couple that had been standing behind Clarke in the foyer. The girl batted her eyes and touched his arm, all while her date stood right beside her. The bartender ignored him, smiling flirtily with the girl. Had he no shame?
"I'm sorry miss, but you can't use this card here." The man dropped the gift card on the bar top, then moved to walk away. He stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "That drink wasn't complimentary."
He turned, disappearing into the hum of the restaurant.
Clarke moved, needing to lean on something, needing support in her moment of naive shame. She rested her elbows on the bar, bordering the fake gift card. As she stared at it, willing this humiliating night to disappear, a tanned hand snatched the gift card from the bar. She looked up to see the bartender smirking as he gripped the plastic edges. He made sure to catch her eye, then snapped the card in half.
"That'll be six fifty for the drink, Princess," he snickered, dropping the remains of the card into a trash can behind the bar.
Even more embarrassed than before, Clarke slapped her last ten dollars on the counter, then hurried out of the Keg as fast as her feet could take her.
Comments and Reviews are always welcome! Drop a review any time to tell me what you think!
