St. Nick

The bus stopped. I hauled my tired butt to the door.

Unexpected snow fell lightly. The glaze on the sidewalk was a bit treacherous in my ‘9 to 5’ heels. I couldn’t wait to get out of my two piece suit and snuggle in my knobby bathrobe and worn slippers.

Stepping off the bus, I was shocked. My kid was grinning at me. There he was, straddling his red Empire bicycle, the one I had saved up for months last Christmas.

“Hi ya mom!” he said with an impish grin.

Stunned, I adjusted my purse and said, “Let’s go home.” Although I sensed he expected more, with the new insurance guidelines coming out today, I was exhausted. So many rules to absorb, and fielding the calls when the switchboard exploded. I needed to put my feet up and take five.

“Mom, aren’t you glad I came to meet you?” he asked.

“Oh honey, of course I am. I’m just tired and my feet are killing me.” I noticed him critically eyeing my heels.

“Uh, I was hoping we could go to the store,” he said longingly as he tugged at my sleeve to be sure he had my attention. “There’s not much to munch on. I already looked. I’d wanted to surprise you. After all I can do soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, but Mom I couldn’t find much to work with,” he grimaced in apology.

“Ugh,” I grimaced, too. Not much to work with. I’ll see about that. I kicked of my shoes and pattered about the kitchen, all 20 square feet of it. I checked the freezer, cupboards and the fridge. Nicholas was right, slim pickings. “Shit!” I exclaimed. I had been preoccupied with the merger and a bit off my game.

“Nick, let’s saddle up. Not much here to feed a flea.” I dumped the suit. Getting into comfy sweats and sneakers, unlikely I’d run into anyone from the office in ‘our neighborhood.’ “Ready,” I hollered. Grabbing my checkbook I silently prayed we'd last another week ‘til payday.

We skipped the bus, still daylight and only 8 blocks to the store. I would have preferred him doing homework and me stretching out before a sit com. A little respite before brushing up on my office skills; the online college class was kicking my butt, too.

The air was crisp. We talked about nonsense, school and what he wanted for Christmas. OMG! Was it that close to Christmas, again? I did some mental calculating, whatever I planned would have to be on lay-away. I hated knowing this side trip would make dinner an hour late but, what the hell, better than no dinner.

Near the door but not quite at the entrance to the store sat a man on the pavement, legs drawn up, hugging his legs against the cold. A roughly drawn sign perched before him, “Need Food, Work or Both.”

I paused, remembering what it was like to be hungry. The real difference between a trip to the grocery store and starvation. He was thin as a scarecrow. I guessed, in his late fifties, the stubble indicated days since a bath and a comfortable place to sleep.

I was tormented but my son came first. Hand in hand, Nick I entered the store.

“Hey, Mom,” Nick said.

Distracted, I replied, “What honey,” while sorting through the bananas looking for ones that would last a few days, so many were already turning or too green.

“What’s up with that guy and the sign?” he asked, curiosity mingling with genuine concern playing across his face.

“Nick, he’s what you call a homeless person. They beg for food or work and probably are decent people but the fact they are homeless tells you they have problems, mental illness, family issues or lost their family and jobs to drinking or drugs? It’s pretty complicated. You never know why they end up on the street,” I said, eyeing my son’s reaction.

“Can’t we get him some food, I mean a little bit?” he inquired.

For the second time today, my son had stunned me with his thoughtfulness. “I don’t know, Nick. What do you think?” speculating how far he'd go with this.

He pondered for a moment. “I’m not sure but it should be stuff that is good, you know? No junk.” His voice rose with emphasis, “He looked hungry!”

“What do you think is good for him?” I asked.

“At school they have this chart that says you need so many food groups a day, so I think some milk, some fruit and something like baloney,” a look of eager anticipation tickled the corners of his smile.

“Nick, I want you to understand, if we do this, we will be eating mac and cheese till our eyeballs fall out or at least, until payday. Are you sure?” I questioned.

“Okay, but can I pick?” he asked enthusiastically.

“Lead away,” I answered, crossing my fingers. I followed him through the store.

“An apple a day,” he proffered as he chose a gleaming red Delicious apple and grabbed an orange, too. “Vitamin C,” he smiled back at me as he tossed them into the cart.

On some level Nick understood a homeless man couldn’t “cook” raw food. He chose a quality lunch meat, a loaf of bread, and going to the deli counter he garnered several packets of mustard and ketchup. Last, he grabbed a snack size bag of corn chips. “What else, mom,” he said seriously, his chin resting in his hand.

“Something to drink,” I answered. Wondering what he’d choose.

“I know, OJ. It’s not as sticky as milk and not as bad for you as coffee,” he nearly jumped with joy.

“Fine,” I said. Moving through the store to get a few things for ourselves I met Nick at the check-out.

As Nick crowded up to add the OJ to the cart, he was humming a little tune, “We love mac and cheese, if you pleee-ase.”

[WC: 998]