Gawd, He Stinks!

Bogie. Ingrid. Casablanca. Need I say more?

It was the evening’s offering on TMC and I was looking forward to it. The waitress had just set down my coffee and I was getting ready to frill it up “to taste”, as they say, when I saw him.

He was working his way down the aisle and getting too close to my customary booth for comfort. He was adorned in an obviously soiled hoodie with the hood up and a pair of knee-length shorts with one strap of a stuffed backpack over his shoulder. A long, white beard and matching pate, carried by a posture stooped by age and less than comfortable living, completed the picture.

Of all the empty booths in all the restaurants in all the world he picked the one in front of me to park himself. He hadn’t been there 30 seconds when it hit me like a dirty washrag to the face. The stench was a combination of BO and various soiling and soiled artifacts. I wouldn’t say I have a weak stomach but this was overpowering. I couldn’t stand it for even 30 seconds before I gathered my gear and coffee and migrated to the far end of the joint, the waitresses casting knowing glances my way.

My waitress approached.

“Couldn’t take it, huh?” The question was rhetorical.

“Gawd, he stinks! You know him?”

“Kind of. We think he’s homeless. He comes in on occasion.”

She looked in his direction.

“Cold as it is, I’m surprised we haven’t seen him sooner.”

I looked up at her.

“Give him that soup and grilled cheese sandwich that’s on the seniors menu. I’ll pay for it.”

“He’s already asked for soup.”

“Give him the sandwich as well. Don’t tell him I picked up the tab. And fumigate the damn booth when he’s finished, it’s too close to mine.”

Better this than the people begging at intersections, I thought. I’d heard about the scams where an enterprising individual will take a number of others, some not so bad off, and have them beg at street corners. At the end of the day the entrepreneur takes the money and gives them each a cut to spend as they see fit, be it on life necessities or drugs.

If they approached me they elicited the standard, “Get the hell away from my car.”

At least our fellow was guaranteed a hot meal and would be safe and warm for a while.

I saw him sitting back there as I stood at the register waiting to pay. Just a filthy hoodie in a booth, a safe home for the next hour or so. I wished I was in a position to do more. He couldn’t know it but he made me give thanks for my own blessings.

One of those blessings would be waiting at home in about ten minutes. Now it would be a blessing tempered by the experience of harsh reality.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

~ Dempsey 🌵

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Photograph © Thor Tolo/UW Election Eye