Cracked Up by Nia Johnson

After tossing my coat across the back of the chair I scanned the room. Half filled coffee cups on unmatched saucers dispersed atop the wooden tables. Remnants of hummus and tofu graced the plates belonging to those nose-deep in books written by the margins. I briefly locked eyes with fellow computer screen devotees. Their raised eyebrows and diligent stares made me feel at home. They meant business, like me, whether it was achieved or not. I grabbed my wallet, discreetly placed my bag under my coat, and headed out to pay my meter. I often ignore the not so occasional ‘excuse me Miss’. Not due to elitism (as I’d like to think), but frankly, most of us women train ourselves to ignore the static. Averting honking horns and hissing of sexually charged invitations – along with the occasional ‘fuck you’ post declination of said offer – must be learned to survive; or at least to maintain sanity. But for whatever reason, on this day, someone who on most days could be overlooked easily caught my attention.

Now, to my knowledge, an adult mouth is supposed to hold 32 teeth; he probably had no more than 29. Which were still more than his counterparts, so either he was new to the game, or maybe less invested. I glanced back at him while placing quarters in the meter, half listening nevertheless looking attentively. But this was no misogynistic banter. This guy came to tell me I left my bag in the coffee shop. I replied with one of those smiles, not super friendly but enough to show you I respect you as a human, and politely said ‘oh I know, I came to pay the meter but thanks for looking out’. I returned to my seat, opened my laptop, and stared out the window. This coffee shop was at the corner of hipster hill and addict avenue. Art students in ragged jeans and dirty Converses shuffling through invalids; them dressing the part while others had no choice in playing it. I observed the crowd from my seat. The shared laughs and passing of cigarettes shadowed by their slow leans. I watched one of them enter the café to ask for a cup of ice. That’s when I saw him again, the Good Samaritan.

I watched him walk from table to table asking for money. He skipped mine on the first lap but then doubled back after minimal success. He began with an apology, “I’m so sorry miss but can you help me get something to eat.”  My years as a Baltimore born social worker had created a callous around my kindness much like that of a dancer’s feet; necessary to perform. I looked at him for a second – the weathered skin, the missing teeth, his body’s hesitancy to come closer – and I smiled when our eyes met. I saw Corey; a friend I played tag with as a kid who was later sent away for murder. I saw Chris; a client who was finally returned to his mother’s care after she got back on her feet. I saw my dad; a tax consultant turned fiend turned therapist. I saw me; what I could have been and with a couple bad decisions what I one day could be.

“You want something to eat from here?” We both laughed. This particular coffee shop was 100% vegetarian. While it was possible for him to have the palate of a rabbit I found it unlikely. “You funny.” He retorted laughingly and sat in a seat near mine. I playfully side-eyed him. “Nah, from McDonalds,” he finally admitted. “Oh ok. I thought you ain’t want anything from here. I’ll see if I have some cash.” We continued to chuckle while I looked through the bag he’d overseen not long before. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Nia. What’s yours?” I looked at him while extending two dollars. “Freddy,” he replied with a smile. He then thanked me with a graciousness displayed only by those who really need what it is you’ve given. I told him to keep safe as he walked away.

Four minutes later I saw him make another lap of solicitation. He didn’t come to my side of the café though. I smiled as he finally walked outside passing through the crowd, happy for that moment where we were just two people laughing with one another. Happy to have seen him, and he looked happy to have been seen.