I went into the store, deposited my checks without interruption and left in a similarly unremarkable fashion. Nothing really worth mentioning, except maybe that there was no line at the ATM. What a great day.
As I walked out, in that short distance to my car, I was approached by a very obviously homeless man. He was very tall, dressed in faded denim rags and carried a military knapsack- an imposing character.
"Excuse me, miss," he said, raising a bushy white eyebrow and looking down at me. Let us all take a moment and appreciate what it means for him to do that; he was so tall that to make eye contact with me, his chin was nearly tucked into his chest- and I'm not short, either. I'm a good 5'10" in my Chuck Taylors.
But I digress. Anyways, I was taken aback, as I think anybody would be. More than that, I was frightened. What society has trained us to assume about the homeless, and all. I mentally calculated how much change I had in my wallet, looked bravely into his weathered face, and smiled expectantly. Or at least I hope I smiled.
"Do you like to read?" His voice was very deep and very gravelly. I think he must have been a heavy smoker at one point in his life. Maybe he still was, but I couldn't smell anything on him. That was another strange thing. He didn't smell like anything at all, not cigarette smoke, not alcohol, not weed, not even dirt.
"Uh...yes..." I did that thing kids do when they're unsure of themselves; eyes darting in all direction, head tilted slightly, eyebrows knit together.
"I have something for you," the man said, and unslung the pack from his shoulder. He smiled and in that moment, I believe I trusted him. It was a very nice smile, squinty eyes and all. So there we were, teenager and vet. At least I think he was.
So he rummaged in his knapsack for a moment- it was buried deep underneath what was made of faded blue fabric. A blanket, maybe. People were staring as they passed; an elderly lady with pearls in her ears and a little girl on her hand frowned at us, but she passed without comment.
"Here," he said at last. I took the book he offered. Hotel du Lac. A battered cover and dog eared pages. It was obviously well loved, and I was at a loss. I looked at him, confused. I certainly hadn't ever heard of it before, and I didn't see how I could offer any sort of opinion or commentary.
"For you," he said.
"What?"
"For you. To read. You said you liked reading, didn't you?"
You know how in movies when the protagonist pinches herself to make sure she isn't dreaming? I would have done that had it occurred to me; it would have been appropriate under the circumstances.
"You're giving me your book?" The confusion in my voice made me sound young. I cringed, to hear myself at age ten again.
"To read," he nodded. "Because I liked your voice." Well naturally. That explains it all, doesn't it? What an odd day.
"Thank you," I said numbly. He nodded.
"And you've got yesterday's eyes. Ever hear of that song?" I shook my head no. "Ah, well." he said. He smiled again, doffed his hat, and walked off.
And that was that.
I tell you, though, that man's an intellectual. A philosopher, maybe, that belongs to the class of bards and wanderers (okay, now I'm getting carried away). I looked up Hotel du Lac, by Anita Brookner, as soon as I got home. It took home the Booker Prize in 1984, but curiosity alone would have been enough to make me read it.
I wonder who that man was, before he was forced to live on the streets. I wish I'd asked for his name.
I'll let you know about the book, as soon as I find time to read it.
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