Today while getting ready for work, I glanced down in the sink to see several strands of my hair clinging to the porcelain. Not an usual sight post-blow-dry, but this time was different since some of the pieces had twisted and turned to form the word "joy." In cursive. OK, the "y" wasn't perfect, but still. The hair had left my head to made its point. And that point was duly noted and deeply appreciated.
I was standing outside of the creperie, reading their posted menu and trying to find my favorite crepe listed: spinach and feta. Mmm. Then I heard a craggly voice next to me. A homeless man, 50-something, who looked a little like Sammy Davis Jr. was bundled in a dirty, puffy black parka and asking me for change for Cheetos. He held up a quarter to show he was bringing something to the table. Could I spare something? I pulled a dollar bill from my wallet and handed it over. He grabbed it and started backing up.
"I'm going to get them right now. The Cheetos," he reassured, nervously, legs jangly as he moved away from me.
"OK," I said, smiling at his anxious sincerity.
Several feet away from me, he turned around, waving the dollar bill in the air, and shouted back an almost forgotten "Thank you!" I smiled at him again and nodded encouragingly, then turned back to menu to hunt down my own cheesy treat. A few minutes later, I was walking out of the restaurant with my neatly wrapped, cozily warm "to go" crepe in my hands. I stepped out into the sidewalk rush and leaned down to take a bite.
"I got them!"
I heard him before I saw him. I turned quickly too look, but not in a startled way. The homeless man was thrusting an opened, silver-lined bag of dusty orange snacks towards me. If it pleases the court: Exhibit A.
"Oh, good!" I mumbled, due to being mid-swallow. He nodded with a grin and shuffled off, like a kid who'd done a chore just right.