Princeton Andy

  I thought for sure she wouldn’t hold the door for me. She almost didn’t, but I guess catching it before it hit me counts, right?  Most people don’t even bother.  After all, we are in Princeton.  “He can’t be coming in here.”  That’s what they always say. The sounds of her clacking shoes made so much noise on the pavement I almost wished she had just gone ahead.  Who wears high heels to shop, anyway?  Dumb chic.

         “Thanks.” I muttered.

         “You’re welcome.”  She answered, politely.  The shocked look on her face, as she countered so automatically, screamed disbelief.  I couldn’t suppress my smile. 

         I felt her eyes examining me from behind; her thoughts were almost audible.  “But his unkempt beard and dirty clothes expose him as homeless.  I didn’t think he’d be coming in here.  God, I almost slammed the door in his face.”  She may as well have shouted her egotistical guilt from a loudspeaker.  Her eyes burned through my unwashed, plaid shirt and worn, grubby jeans.  Summer’s 80-degree steaminess did not thwart my uniform.  After all, it’s the only way for me to stay invisible.  She must have heard me when I approached Iris for a coffee advance.  You know, like Wimpy used to do – “I’ll kindly pay you tomorrow for a hamburger today.”  Iris didn’t bite.  As I turned to leave, I passed her again – her eyes still following me.  I had almost reached the door when she spoke,

         “I’ll buy your coffee.” She uttered softly, abrogating her burden.

         Her voice sounded kind in its quiet.  I won’t cadge, but this time, she caught me by surprise.  “I didn’t ask.” Defensively retorted.

         “No, you didn’t.  It’s okay.”  She discerned.

         “I didn’t ask.” I repeated, in case she didn’t hear me the first time.

         “I know.”  She heard.

         “I’m not begging.”  I simplified.

         “No, you’re not.  I don’t mind at all.  It isn’t a big deal.”  She reacted with trepidation. 

Did she think I would mug her or something, here in this specialty delicatessen?  She squirmed in discomfort when I accepted by saying, “Thank you.  Let’s go together.”

Of course, Iris wouldn’t believe me alone, after yesterday’s dearth of money.  It seemed proper to accept with her beside me, presenting an honest alternative. 

         She walked with me to the counter, cautiously smiling as if to suggest an apology for almost allowing the door to rearrange my face.  She faintly informed Iris, “I’ll buy his coffee.  Give him whatever he wants.”  Nice - discreet.  She clearly had a conscience. Any of the other Yuppy Granolas looking for their soy nuts would have climbed atop the counter, proclaiming their charity to the rest of the store.  Maybe she wasn’t all that bad.

         Returning to her search for just the right tea, she left me alone with my lunch. It didn’t take me two minutes to devour it.  Once I finished, I scampered back towards the

 door.  Thanking her as we crossed, I hastily strolled past until her voice stopped me again. 

         “Where’s your coffee?”  She questioned, ready to pounce on Iris for not acquiescing.

         “I drank it.” I replied, matter-of-factly.

         “Already?”  She prodded, skeptical.

         “Yes.  What’s your name?”  I teetered on a tightrope here.  A person’s name bares her identity.  Dare I get so personal?  After all, it was only coffee and a bite. 

         “ Sabrina.  I’m Sabrina.  What’s your name?”  This time, her eyes penetrated mine, not staring, but searching - for me, for my essence, for my reasons for being homeless. 

The intensity of her observation proffered me respect this time.  I suspect she thought she’d see pain, buried somewhere within my soul. Instead, I reflected the freedom her eyes seemed to crave.

         “My name is Andy.”

         “Nice to meet you, Andy.”  Jarred by the connection, she looked away.  I felt sorry for her.

         I couldn’t tell her, standing in the deli, that in my quest for anonymity at age 36, I abandoned my high-profile job in finance, and posh, urban apartment for life disconnected. 

Fourteen years ago, my wife surrendered to her illness – schizophrenia in its most dramatic grandeur.  Still, somehow, she managed to pilfer custody of my two, beautiful children and moved them across the country.  She may as well have moved to China. The pit of disillusionment and emptiness she left behind consumed me.  I fought for ten years until by then, my children had established new lives – healthy ones – with friends and lovers and dreams, all apart from their mother and me, existing as independent souls.  Brenda quickly learned to use her imagination to transport her to a fantasy world, untouched by anyone she chose not to admit.  In the interim, she cared for Brady and protected him from his crazy mother.  Thank God she knew better, but kids always seem to know, don’t they?  Youth really isn’t wasted on the young.  Sometimes, they’re smarter than all of us.

         So, after a decade of what may as well have been combat on the front lines, I let go, only once Brenda affirmed that she and Brady were really okay.  Grown themselves, they now looked forward to their own options.  They no longer needed to see Daddy fighting.  They always knew I never gave up, so I was free.    Freedom opened the floodgates of emotion.  Fueled by anger, relief gave way to a sadness that devoured me. So, I disconnected – sold my belongings, bought a boat, and sailed the earth.  Responsible only for myself, sustenance was surprisingly effortless – some deals more admirably made than others.  Still, the experiences I gained throughout my ordeal and those two years of travel altered my being.  Incapable of returning to a world of iphones and ipods, unwilling to reclaim my life of meetings and cocktail parties, I vanished entirely, and succumbed to freeing my soul from every obligation to which tax-paying adults are bound.  Eventually, even the slip fees became impossible to pay; so, I sold my boat and lived off that money for another two years, finding my way to Princeton. 

Even Mother Nature could not penetrate my walls of disdain, defense and fortitude.  So, now, I simply exist in the reflections of the eyes of strangers and introduce myself whenever the opportunity arises.  Maybe some day, something will change in my lot cast by life.  Today, I do not care.

         I returned to the deli the next day to maintain as much routine as a homeless vagabond could have.  Surprisingly, I have yet to be arrested for loitering. Once again, however, Iris declined my plea for coffee-on-credit; but she did not seem to look through me, as she often does.  I wondered what Sabrina could have said to Iris when paying for her wares, so I asked Iris.                 

         “Iris, do you remember the lady who paid for my coffee yesterday?”

         “Of course, I remember her.”

         “Before she left, did she say anything that you remember?”

         “Actually, she did.  She asked about you – about how often you come in.”

“I told her the truth – that you visit us daily, sometimes with money and other times, without.”

         “What’d she say next?”

         “Something I won’t quickly forget. She said ‘we’re all connected’, but she looked so sad as she spoke.  I wondered why…”

         “Yeah, me, too.  Thanks.  See you tomorrow.”

         So, I left for the day feeling empty, not just due to my lack of lunch.

         In the six months that followed, I never saw Sabrina again, until the end.  Maybe she was just visiting Princeton. Who knows?  The cold weather brought with it unkindness. The bitter winter winds beat me.  Food became more rare than the birds, and my resistance succumbed to illness. My cough persisted, unrelenting.  I could not expect health while living on a sewer grate.  After the local bar closed one exceptionally piercing night, a young EMT took pity on me and called in the rescue squad.  In and out of consciousness, the technicians’ voices floated overhead – “shame” – “terminal”- “better off”.  I was lucid for long enough to hear the doctors’ diagnosis:  lung cancer; must have been all those years of smoking too many Trinidads. The lifestyle of the rich and famous executes me after four years of being a bum – funny. 

Having always declared myself an organ donor, to my surprise, Sabrina reappeared, leading a blind man.  Wearing hope with trepidation, their wedding rings intertwined with each other like infinity.  Sabrina’s words resounded in my ears: My corneas might bring Sabrina’s husband sight.  Perhaps she, too, will see more clearly now.  

        Too bad I can’t tell Iris.