Touched

The Greyhound rumbled into the bus depot around two a.m. Juggling my knapsack and baby I moved to the front of the bus. Matthew was six months old and sleeping like an angel in a homemade sling I wore around my neck. I had kept him close the entire three day trip. I had not slept for fear of pick pockets or others who might have ill intent. It was not pleasure but necessity that brought us to that place. I was only nineteen, unmarried and believed I had made just about every mistake possible up to that point. I was looking for a fresh start, determined to make a good life for the two of us.

The smell of exhaust fumes and body odor were thick in the air and I was desperate to escape them both. I noticed a giant thermometer outside the door of the station. The mercury read at just over thirty degrees. As I stepped off the bus the wind hit me nearly knocking me off balance. Exhaustion over took me as I entered the station. All I wanted was to sleep. There were a few people scattered about in uncomfortable chairs. Other cross-country travelers making the best of nothing much, stealing dreams between cramps.

A stern-faced matron sat behind the safety glass, buried nose deep in the latest Stephen King novel. She cocked an eye brow at me in annoyance when I asked if the next bus was on schedule and she huffed that it was. I found a spot that would be my refuge for the next four hours and tried to get settled in. I tucked a soft blanket under Matthew’s perfect little chin. His beautiful eyes were hidden behind sleep and sweet baby dreams. I could almost see kittens chasing bubbles behind his lids. His tiny cheeks tinged pink, so soft under a mothers kiss. I inhaled the fresh scent of him mixed with Johnson’s baby wash and powder. My heart was so filled with love, but also fear. Uncertain that I deserved this amazing gift, or my ability to do right by him, I felt so lost and helpless most of the time.

Suddenly a flash of metal across the room caught my eye. There was a burly, menacing security guard his gleaming stainless steel badge displayed proudly. He wore a stiffly starched shirt and had an army issue crease in his slacks as he made another round of his dank dirty cell. He appeared to be as trapped by a paycheck as we weary travelers were by the departure schedule. I stared out the glass door facing the street and saw the wind as it battled a mighty stop sign. It stood valiantly, being rocked from side to side in musical tempo. I could hear it through the glass. It sounded like the steal drum of an island band. Dust and debris danced in circles allowing me to actually see air.

Then, unexpectedly, there "he" was. The moment I first glimpsed him, I was mesmerized. A slight figure, no more than five feet five and he could not have weighed more than a hundred pounds if he were carrying a ten pound bag of rocks in his arms. The wind seemed to propel him as he moved up the walk. His shirt was whipping out in all directions. Pants were plastered against spindly legs. He bounded through the door seeking shelter from the frigid injustice of the world. I saw a bum, a hobo, a shambles of a man. He wore a stained, torn shirt, with safety pins where buttons had once been. His pants were ill-fitting polyester, in burgundy, reminding me of something scavenged from Goodwill’s trash. They hung three inches above knobby ankles and what must have been ice cold, bare feet.

I stared in astonishment, at those hard calloused soles. I could hear the texture of his feet as they scrapped noisily across the smooth surface of the floor. He left tiny footprints as he made his way further into the station. There, he was stopped in his muddy tracks by the ego of the guard. The homeless man pleaded to use the facilities and get warm, promising he would only be a few minutes.

Without warning, the vagrants’ head swung in my direction and I averted my eyes, avoiding contact, feigning blindness to circumstance. Finally the pit bull in the guards’ uniform granted grumbled consent. I watched through veiled eyes as he hobbled to the washroom. My eyes were transfixed on his dry black face and course, gray, tightly curled hair. A small hand ending in long fingers was wrapped around a half eaten turkey leg. I thought he must be saving it for another meal. In his other hand was an unmistakable black book. The cover was as tattered and shabby as the man himself. The binding worn so that the name had all but disappeared, yet I recognized it. He clutched it tightly against his chest as he pushed through the bathroom door and I thought I could hear him humming.

Part of me wanted to turn away, yet I was unable to redirect my attention. I just kept looking at that door, like I might miss something important. I felt a sudden chill so I adjusted the baby blanket to make sure Matthew was completely covered, but I never took my eyes off that door. It seemed like only a moment and the man emerged once again. He immediately stepped towards me with a smile on his wrinkled old face. I bent my head and hugged my sleeping angel against my breast, protecting him, or using him as a shield, I was not sure which. Suddenly a thunderous deep voice boomed out of this insignificant little man. He said, “That’s a beautiful boy you have there ma’am.” My teeth were clenching so hard behind my lips. Apprehension crawled up my spine, gnawing like a rat. I felt my heart plummet into the pit of my stomach as the man placed his bible under his arm and reached out for my baby’s cheek. Instinctively I wanted to jerk the baby out of his reach, but something in his eyes stopped me. There was a kindness there, a gentleness that instantly counteracted my fear.

When he spoke again, he said “What’s his name ma’am?” The word tumbled out of my trembling lips in a whisper. “Matthew,” I said. I realized I had been holding my breath and I exhaled as I spoke his name. This man’s eyes were sparkling with life and he smiled wide through crooked yellow teeth and said, “Aaaaahhh, a gift from God!” He bent over then, as much as his broken old back would allow. He placed his dinner and his hope, on the chair beside me and struggled to his arthritic knees at my feet. He touched his rough, gnarled up hand to Matthew’s hair and bowed his head as he offered a prayer of blessings upon my son. He prayed for guidance, happiness, health and love for the precious baby in my arms.

In the distance, I could see the guard looming. He was moving quickly in what I assume was crisis posture in an effort to save me from a pan handler. I was just about to open my mouth in warning when my hand was covered in a sandpaper grasp and something cold was pressed into my palm. “Give this to Matthew,” he said as he reached for his bible and leftovers. In seconds he was grabbed roughly from behind by the man with the badge. He was then thrown across the sticky floor where he landed on his face, bringing blood to his parched lips. His dinner went rolling into the corner while the bible hit the floor with a loud slap of surprise.

I looked down into my hand and there I found a single shiny quarter, a gift from this bum, with no shoes on his cold feet. The guard cursed at him as he dragged him by the arm towards the door. I jumped up with my son in my arms to retrieve his book. He smiled brightly, as I placed it in his outstretched hands and thanked me with “God Bless you child.” The guard then quickly ejected him from the bus station, in a fit of foul language and gestures. I saw the wind claim him once again. It ripped into him, trying to tear away what little clothing he wore, as he walked on those concrete blocks he used as feet. As I watched him make his way up the street, he was smiling and happy and singing praises to God.