Just Another Morning

He's been there sporadically over the past year, leaning against the brick wall near the entrance of the Hayward Peet's. Standing alongside a confiscated Lucky's shopping cart stuffed with, well, stuff. A small, slight man, Hispanic, late 50s maybe, hard to tell with his weathered skin.

My excuse for being at Peet's at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am was to fuel up with caffeine before trying to beat traffic on the notorious Hwy 92 eastbound. But this guy wasn't a commuter. He was clearly homeless, although he never asked for money. All he said each morning was, "God bless." Going in, going out, a simple nod and "God bless."

I wanted to help him, but you just never know where your money is going, right? So, like other commuters, I occasionally bought him something from Peet's, although really, just how much Major Dickason or banana bread can anyone take in one morning?

Then one day while cleaning out a closet, I came across a nice nylon duffel bag that I'd forgotten about and thought, ta dah! How about I stock it with supplies, things a homeless person might need?

And so, off I trotted to Target where I bought a pack of undershirts and a sweatshirt. Men's socks. Toiletries, personal hygiene supplies, and a box of granola bars. Packed everything neatly and stored it in the back of my Honda CRV for the next time I saw him.

Except he disappeared. Perhaps the continuously cold, damp, windy weather proved to be too much. Sure, there were other homeless people who could use the supplies, but something about this guy with his simple "God bless" had touched me. This was his bag.

Then one day, months later, there he was at his usual spot in front of Peet's. Giddy with the thought of brightening his day, but also not wanting to insult him, I approached him tentatively and asked if he could use a few supplies. "Sure," he said.

Great! When I returned with the duffel bag minutes later,  he was engrossed in conversation on a phone that, I couldn't help but notice, had the familiar Apple logo. When he saw me, he nodded and continued talking while waving me, somewhat impatiently, toward a spot where I could place the bag. Sort of like he was a Wall Street stockbroker making an important trade and I was the local deli gal delivering his salami on rye, hold the mayo.

Uh, okay. 

I followed his instructions and dropped the bag atop his packed Lucky's shopping cart. I wished him a good day and he lifted his chin in acknowledgement, then turned his back to carry on with his conversation.

Alrighty then. And a God bless to you, too.