Don't Forget to Write

Denzel's Meal

The day before Christmas Eve I met Karen at a new coffee shop that she claimed had "the absolute best coffee on this side of the Hudson". It was in Ty's old neighborhood. Vintage leather-bound books that would never be opened stood on old wooden shelves between fancy, over-detailed, over-saturated photos of coffee beans. The tables were made of driftwood and old whiskey barrels. The floorboards were old and creaky but in a freshly done, on-purpose-because-old-is-cool kind of way. The shop seemed as if it were trying to resemble something between 1920's Parisian cafe and the private quarters of a ship captain. After paying nearly fifteen dollars for two cups of coffee, I realized that this shop must have been one of the abominations in that force called "gentrification" that Moose was so vehemently complaining about. I couldn't help but agree with the man. This gentrification needed to be stopped before it chased all of us into shanty-homes. I'll be god damned if I ever choose to spend that much money on a cup of coffee, even if I do get out of poverty.

Karen drank her latte, which had a name I couldn't pronounce, with lots of sugar and cream. I had a normal coffee (when I ordered this "normal" coffee, the barista looked so offended you might have thought I was pissing on her mother's grave) with just a bit of cream. When Karen wasn't looking, I pulled the flask out of my jacket and added a shot of whiskey. Karen, always more vigilant than she appeared, turned and gave me a piercing look. "What?" I said, "it's for flavoring."

We walked down to the soup kitchen. The cutting wind bit our cheeks, watered our eyes, and turned our feet into stones while the coffee kept our lips and bellies warm. Dark gray clouds hung ominously low, barely higher than the tops of buildings, as if it was a curtain preparing to drop on all of Harlem.

When we walked in and signed our names the people who ran the kitchen gave us bright orange shirts with the name of their non-profit organization on them. They reminded me of Camp Half-Blood t-shirts from the Percy Jackson series, a childhood favorite of mine. "So glad you could join us today my brother and sister," said a young black man with a cross around his neck, "in a time so near his birth, it is important that we all take the time to do the Lord's work. God bless your souls." He bowed his head.

As he walked away I whispered to Karen, "Do you think somebody should tell him that Jesus was actually born in the spring?" She hit me, and we followed the man to our stations. We were placed on the serving crew, so we would be plopping food on to orange trays high-school-cafeteria style.

We served turkey, yams, mashed potatoes, corn, string beans, salad, and bread for hours. The line for food was out the door. The people outside huddled under their coats and leaned against the windowsills of the building to avoid the wind. I recognized some of the people in the line; the local vagabonds all had their begging routes and squatting stations. There was the Pathmark Lady, she was black with pointed white hair a bit like Einstein's. She frequented the area around 145the, and Pathmark was her home of operations. She had 3 teeth, all of them yellowed and hanging to her gums by a thread. I had once watched her take a piss in the middle of the street during rush hour. I vaguely wondered if that store would turn into a Whole Foods or a Trader Joe's or one of those expensive organic places in the coming years of gentrification.

And here was the old white man who hung around 125the. His long brown and gray beard and hair cascaded around his wrinkled face down to his mid-chest. His hands were huge, and his fingers were yellowed. He could usually be found yelling about religion and the impending apocalypse to nobody but the heavens and the buildings around him. Sometimes he'd look you in the eyes and it felt as if you were staring into an infinite abyss of madness that was somehow contained within the iris of one man.

I recognized a tall, portly, black man with smiling eyes as the saxophone player who was often in the park when Bruno and I took Milo on walks. We had taken to calling him Clarence Clemons, and I never would have thought him to be impoverished. He always wore a suit (though, in hindsight, it might have always been the same suit) and a bowler hat. When he played music he swayed with that saxophone as if it were his one true love as he turned the park into his own personal blues roadhouse. When he thanked us for the food, his voice was velvety and smooth, just like his instrument, and his smile was pure.

Late in the afternoon the Homeless Denzel came in. He was thinner; his cheekbones were jagged under wispy skin, and there were heavy bags under his eyes. He was handsome underneath all of the damage. When I had first seen him months ago he had a barrel chest, a dense midsection, and arms the size of some people's necks. But, where there were once Olympian muscles, there was not much but bone and loose skin. His black shirt hung loosely on his body. Despite his debilitating physical state, he still looked calm and controlled. His posture was perfect and proud. This man did not belong to the streets. He was a leader of men, not a beggar of them. The streets should belong to him.

He smiled at me and softly said thank you as I scooped sweet potatoes onto his tray. "Looks like you folks are running a bit low on food" he said conversationally. His voice was deep and raspy.

"We weren't expecting such a big turnout," Karen said, her voice hollow.

"Well there sure are a lot of folks who need a free meal in Harlem. What about the rest of the people here?" he asked.

"We may have to send them to other locations."

"That's a shame, it sure is cold out there. Rather difficult for people like us to be getting around."

Karen nodded, her eyes had dropped in an effort to hide the fact that they were watering. Seeing this, the homeless Denzel's face drew itself into concern. He hadn't meant to hurt her, he only meant to have a conversation. He reached across and lightly touched her shoulder. "Well, what you've done today is remarkable. The people who were fed are certainly grateful. Thank you kindly, continue to do good in the world, and have a blessed holiday," Karen lifted her head and made eye contact with him, and smiled through the teary eyes. Then he looked at me, nodded, and winked. I'm not sure what he meant by it, but I know it was something important.

His shoulders swayed as his long legs carried him away. He walked past all of the open seats, straight to the end of the long line where he kneeled in front of a young white boy with moppy blond hair covering a dirty face that was red from windburn. The child, no older than thirteen, was alone. The Homeless Denzel pushed the tray of food towards him. The young boy shook his head politely. Denzel said something I couldn't hear, smiled at the boy, and offered the tray again. This time the boy accepted with a smile and a nod. The kid's smile was misplaced. The innocence we usually expect from children wasn't there. There was no glow in his eyes. It was a broken smile that knew joy was always fleeting. It was the smile of a boy who had seen too much to retain the ignorant bliss of young age. It was the same smile most of us have once we get to a certain point in our lives, once we've been broken in like mules, usually at an age much older than 13 years old. The Homeless Denzel tousled the boy's hair. His thin body turned into a silhouette against the sun when he stepped out onto the street. His clothes, hanging loosely over him like drapes, fluttered violently in the harsh December wind.

Karen tapped my hand, whispering "Ground control to Major Tom," and pointed to a food tray in front of me.

Soon after that the facility ran out of food. We had to tell scores of people waiting in line where other soup kitchens were. Making them traverse that cold weather for a meal they were promised here made me feel like I was personally going back on my word. A dense pit formed in my stomach. Would they all make it to those distant soup kitchens? Or would they just have to endure another hungry night?

After cleaning the kitchen, and dining area, Karen and I went to a diner to get a late lunch. I ordered a buffalo chicken sandwich, she got banana nut pancakes and drenched them in syrup. I could only eat half of my sandwich, and when Karen asked what was wrong I didn't know what to say, so I shrugged and asked for a to-go box. I kept thinking about Denzel, and about how I have seen him hundreds of times, but I've never asked for his name or even had a conversation with him. The most communication we'd shared was the occasional nod. I knew he was a good man, perhaps one of the few good men left in the world, and I knew it even before he gave the young boy his own tray of food. It was something you could feel in the way he looked at you, as if he was searching for the soul first, and the person it inhabited second. What was he was doing right now? Had he found a meal? Had he found some booze to help keep him warm? Was he covered up? Or was he freezing? What was he thinking about?