Paul locked the bar door, and waited for me to find my keys. The door sealed behind us and I tugged the handle to make sure it was locked. Usually, after I shoo all the regulars out by 2 am, there would be a couple of people in a circle outside, drinking their to-go six packs and smoking. Nobody tonight, though. I looked down the sidewalk towards the parking lot, and noticed the legs sticking out. Someone was sitting on the concrete in front of the Real Estate office. I said goodnight to Paul, and he opened the door to his apartment above the bar.
I prepared to approach the legs, seeing now the man’s hair peeking over the edge of the table sitting in front of the Real Estate office. He was leaning his lower back on a maroon colored pillow. He was awake, looking down.
He sat with hands in his lap. The air was still thick from a surprise rainstorm earlier in the night. Earlier in the night I’d pushed the front door to open and stood to watch it. Water overflowed from the gutters and smacked the concrete. Everyone else in the bar was watching it too as I let the door fall closed.
He had the dazed expression of a child who has been asked to sit and wait.
It is difficult to give someone your good intentions from the brief sharing of eyes. It is the most basic thing to give another human: plain eye to eye acknowledgement. Often all I do is meet the eyes of someone who is visibly suffering and say hello, sometimes I give money. Either way feels rushed, uncomfortable, incomplete.
I sensed we were close to the same age, which played a role, I think, in both our discomforts as we looked at eachother. Him being there on the side walk, while I walked keys in hand, ready to get in bed. I said “Hey”. I heard my single word drop an octave at the end, at the sounds of the “Y”. It came out sounding like pity instead of recognition. He repeated it back. I kept walking.
He received my eyes with embarrassment, like he wanted to explain his situation. I should’ve paused for a moment to carry on past the “Hey”. It was a hey that lingered after I took a step over it.
Something I have learned behind the bar is how to tell when someone needs to talk. Not just to me, but to anyone, no one in particular. A human. They look a bit puffed up in the chest, like they’re holding their breath in. They lean forward slightly, or rock in their seat. If they sense that you are present behind your eyes, and willing, they look around before they start to tell you whats on their mind.
The silence stalked me back to my car. There was no one else on the north side of Higgins street. I was aware of the cash in my wallet, and I thought to myself it had been a slow night, I didn’t have much. I was also aware that he was less than 10 feet from me, listening, maybe, as I unlocked my car and sat, right foot in and my left still planted on the concrete. I thought about what I could give him, if I should give him something. I had in my purse a nug of weed wrapped in a white napkin that a customer gave me as a tip. I don’t smoke, and I could give him that, but what if he doesn’t smoke either? Or what if he needs money so much more than weed?
I sat there for a while, weighing it out, feeling like a coward.
I once passed a older man who was sitting on the concrete, wrapping his bleeding left foot with a strip of gauze. His hiking backpack lay on the concrete beside him. He was the one who, as I passed and watched his work from my side eye, said “Hello!”. He broke the barrier by seeing me and I tried not to stare at him and his blood. He would not allow himself to just be walked by. I can’t remember how I responded, but I did not ask about the foot, and I kept walking, baffled at myself.
I blew the young man off.
I started my car with my door open, and pulled it closed without slamming. I gassed to the parking lot entrance and shifted to park so I could pull out my phone and put on a podcast for the drive home. I was looking down when he knocked on my passenger window. I dropped my phone into my lap and rolled down the window a quarter. He said, “Im sorry to bother you, but are you busy right now?”
Without answering, I asked if he smoked weed, and he nodded. I reached into my purse, thinking about the money I had, and touched the napkin bundle. I passed it to him and he put in straight into his front jean pocket. I said, “Do you have fire?”, and he said, “I do.”
There was a pause. I said, “Okay, I hope you enjoy, have a good night. I’m going to head home to bed now.” He held up his hand, a wave, and I pulled out the parking lot with my window still open.
I drove home in silence, thinking about the words he chose. “Are you busy right now?” I was not busy, but I was afraid of him. I was afraid of putting myself at risk. I gave him what was quick on hand. Maybe he needed a conversation, some return to normalcy, so much he came to me instead of letting me drive off, the last human on Higgins street at 2:30 am.
