Five dollars

Friday afternoon, 9 January 2009

We arrived at the Rehoboth Outlets just before lunch, time enough to visit the Timberland shop and a few others along that way before making our way round to the so-called food court, 'the land of the five-dollar pizza slice' as we call it. (Really they are like 3.25, but still....) Roger met us shortly after and drove us across Route One to the other side, where we picked up stockings, socks, underwear and scarves at the Hanes outlet which is my favourite shop in the whole place (except sometimes the Bali place... depending on my mood). We got Dr Pepper at the burger place and actually sat at the tables outside sipping it. By the time we were done it was nigh onto 4.00 pm and nasty little snow flurries were flecking the sky. On our way back to the car I saw him.

He was shuffling along in pants that were too long and a long ugly grey overcoat, not speaking to or looking at anyone at all, as though his pride would not allow him to look needy. But he was in need. Even as people shied away from him he found a comfortable place to lean outside the rest rooms, which was enough out of the weather for the moment. And we wondered where he would go. The snow built and the sky went darker and there was an ominous sort of portent to the whole afternoon, as though someone somewhere was waiting for something to happen somehow. And then both of us looked at each other.

Jessy drew herself up to her own courage and I would support it. 'Wait,' I said, and dug in my purse. But, the embarrassing thing is... we don't carry cash. Thank God for debit accounts-- yes, maybe 95 percent of the time. Daddy never wants us going away loaded with green money-- he thinks if we're seen using cards we've got nothing worth robbing us for. So as I looked all I had was a five-dollar note and a one-dollar note. Six dollars, to offer someone who had nothing at all.

Daddy told us a funny story once-- a story which does not seem so funny now and did not as Jessy and I stood in the snowfall regarding a poorer, older man who did not want to be an example or a spectacle or a reason for anything. In the Eighties, in the days of his second band, the one which, whilst much more successful, was not the one he enjoyed more (though it did lead him to Mommy), Daddy was in Manhattan for a recording date and it was evening and people got hungry. Daddy and one of his mates braved the 52nd-Street madness at rush hour in the face of an impending snowfall and went looking for anything that would serve the whole studio full. As it turned out they ended up separating for the liquor store, and to wait for his mate Daddy took out his own box of KFC and leaned back against a store front to nibble on it whilst all the people passed. And it was all gone and he happened to drop the last piece, and being basically frugal and having come from nothing he actually leaned down to pick up the dropt piece of fried chicken, as though in New York it could ever have had any value to a human being again (really just so it wasn't litter, you know). And the woman stopped in front of him.

Now my daddy has always had longish hair. He likes to say it's 1968 original equipment (although he was not born in 1968 that's when his hair first got long). And in his performing days it was usually very well kept, long and lush and actually very pretty, although I have seen him sweaty and messy after a show as often as I'd like to and also in the studio so many gentilities go lacking, you know. He was probably looking a shambles leaning against a building on crowded 52nd Street in the face of a snowfall, in need of a shave, with sweaty hair, in a well-abused Army jacket, ripped jeans, torn sneakers, matted sweatshirt, probably no gloves-- this is my dad on a day off, you know. And he had bent over to pick up a dropt piece of KFC chicken. And the woman in a nice wool coat and stockings stopped in front of him and said, 'Here, you poor soul, take this. I'm sorry it's all I have.'

And he looked up, stunned really, and she left it in his surprised hand and went off.

When his mate stepped out with the bottles they both had a really good laugh at it. Daddy waved the five-dollar note round and round like a flag. 'I'm a bum, I'm a derelict!' he announced to the whole street, much too inappropriately, but it must have seemed a riot to him. After all, in spite of that lady's good clothes-- and good heart-- he was probably considerably richer than she had been, even then. At the studio they all had a good laugh at it, and then went on recording and that was that. The good thing about Daddy is that he never forgot that story, went on to donate some pretty good money to one of New York's homeless shelters, and raised his children to have compassionate hearts.

I have asked him whatever became of the very five-dollar note the woman gave him, because I might have liked to seen it framed somewhere, like a reminder to us to be generous. He told me nothing special became of it, that it was just money. Mommy told me once that he had told her he had given it to the very next homeless person on 52nd Street... which I believe.

The homeless man leaned back against the wall outside the rest rooms and wrapped his coat round himself more. It was freezing by now and nearly fully dark. I folded the five-dollar note from my purse round my fingers and practically lunged after him. Behind me, Roger pulled up at the kerb. Jessy waved at him to wait and came with me.

The man looked up as though I were about to rob him. (Why do they always think that?) Drawing a long breath I said gently, 'Here, you poor soul. Please take this. It's all I have.'

'What--?' he scowled at me.

'Please,' I said, extending my arm. I would not look like I would not get too close and stepped right up to him. 'Please.... get some hot tea or something.'

He looked at me, looked at Jessy, swiped the note from my hand, and disappeared into the rest room lobby. Through the window we saw him shuffling away, looking mistrustfully over his shoulder at us, till he had gone into the men's room.

We did not speak to each other as we turned and went back across the covered pavement to the idling car. Roger stood up straight, opened the back door for us, and saw us into the back seat. People stared at us as though we were Mary-Kate and Ashley. I felt like Mary Magdalene.

There is a line from a Sting song that Daddy has often played for us that goes:

'Hide my face in my hands; shame wells in my throat
'A comfortable existence reduced to a shallow shameless party'.

From now on I shall carry more cash in my purse... just because I don't really need it.

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