I want to tell you a story that happened many years ago, as recently as today and will happen again tomorrow. It is a story about a deceptively familiar place where securing the basic necessities of life, health care, housing, transportation and communication, requires persistence to overcome one obstacle after another. I call this place The Parallel Universe.
Trila* had been out of cigarettes for two days, so when I showed up on our get-together Wednesday, she asked me if we could please, Please, PLEASE go to the Cheap Tobacco Store. “I promise I’ll pay you back right away when my check comes in.” I knew she would keep her promise, so despite my expressed policy not to buy a pack of cigarettes for her when she ran out before the end of the month, I agreed to one pack. Payday was three days away. Making 20 cigarettes last until her check arrived struck me as a tall ask for someone who smokes a pack a day!
Growing up I heard the complaint, “there’s too much month at the end of the money,” and I paraphrased it to fit Trila’s predicament: … “at the end of the cigarettes.” She laughed and vigorously nodded in agreement.
One of the things I appreciate about Trila is she never assumes anything. Though clearly desperate for a smoke, she first checked with me to see if she had time to smoke – in other words, was I willing to wait?
I said “yes” and was happily people watching, when a man wearing a pair of laceless tan tennis shoes scuffled along the sidewalk heading our direction. Hands deep into the pockets of an ill-fitting pair of plaid trousers, he was halfway past my car when he spotted me sitting in the driver’s seat through the windshield. He stopped, backed up a few steps, and then keeping a wary eye on me, continued walking.
Curious about what he was up to, I watched his progress and realized he was watching Trila inhaling the smoke of a brand-new cigarette. I say “brand-new” as contrasted with “a discarded stub” someone has dropped on the pavement leaving one or two puffs behind. He drew closer and tentatively called “ma’am” too softly for her to hear. Maintaining a non-threatening space between them, he moved around front so she could see him and asked again.
Without hesitation, Trila knocked a cigarette out of her one and only pack and gave it to him, offering her lighter as well. With a smile on his face, he bowed in gratitude and headed across the parking lot. Stopping a few yards later, he bent over and rubbed the lit end of the cigarette on the pavement, then making sure it was no longer hot, slipped the stub into his shirt pocket saving it for another time.
The entire episode reminded me of Jesus’ story of the poor widow who put two small coins (dimes maybe?) in the offering plate. She gave what she had from a loving heart well acquainted with the struggle to survive.
“That was a very nice thing to do, Trila,” I said as she settled into the passenger seat.
“Been there,” she replied, “a lot.” She drew the seat belt over her shoulder, buckled it and looked up at me. “Them pleasures are hard to come by when you live on the street.”
* To protect their identity, Trila is a composite of these women. All the stories are true and describe my experience as companion in each case.
