Coffee for Doug


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Telechron alarm Clock

I’ve been known to hit the snooze button for over 45 minutes. Regularly. This morning was no exception.

After a night of poor sleep, 5:30am came too soon. It seemed my alarm started going off as soon as I finally got to sleep. My dog Nigel hopped up onto the bed and pawed at my face. He knows the alarm means breakfast. I hit the snooze button before rolling closer to my boyfriends warm body, starving for just 5 more minutes of peace.

5 minutes turned into 30 minutes, and before I know it I was jumping our of bed, throwing on my cleanest dirty scrubs, and brushing my teeth as I frantically dug for my sneakers in my growing pile of laundry. I scooped some food into the dog bowls, opened the dog door, and rushed out to my car.

I pulled up to the coffee shop for my morning fix. No matter how late I am, I always stop for coffee.  Otherwise there would be no point in showing up. I combed my fingers through my hair as I crossed the street. I yawned loudly. “Coffee will fix that” I heard a voice say beside me. It was Doug, a local guy I know from out and about. I see him most morning at Your Mama’s Mug, where we both get our required caffeine. I laughed at his joke. “That’s the plan” I replied.

Doug is a local teacher. Like many underpaid public service employees, he tends bar at night. I always see him sitting at the outdoor tables of our coffee shop, drinking iced coffee and reading countless books on his kindle. We share a mutual love for books.  He’s even written one for sale on amazon.

We chatted briefly about our upcoming day as we entered the coffee shop, side by side. Always a gentleman, he held the door open for me and allowed me to approach the counter first.

Judy smiled warmly at me as I entered. “There she is!” she exclaimed, her standard morning greeting. She already had my medium coffee cup perched on the counter top, ready to be filled with my hot nectar of life. I dropped my debit card onto the counter as I snatched up my cup.

“I’ll pay for Doug’s, too.”

The Little Black Boxes

Favor Cake for wedding, with 40 carton boxes a...

Wedding bells are in the air!

My dear friend Kitt is getting married next weekend. I’ve been looking forward to her wedding for months now. It’s hard to believe that the day is already upon us, that soon she will be a Missus of on lucky man.

A while back, I offered to help her with the wedding preparations. My phone beeped at me earlier in the week. There she was, taking me up on my offer. Needless to say, I was delighted.

Worked proved to be challenging today, conditions that are bred from a short staff and over booked appointment schedule. After nine and a half long hours, I was in my car headed 40 minutes north for the our wedding preparation date.

Always the gracious recipient of kindness, she took me out to dinner before hand. We drank margaritas while her 3-year-old daughter entertained me with stories and quirks that are unique to people in her decidedly charming phase of life. After an enjoyable meal and even more enjoyable company, we walked back to her house, swinging her daughter between us down the sidewalk. She squealed for more before her feet even touched the ground. We all laughed the whole way back.

Once we were home and settled at the kitchen table, Kitt unloaded boxes of craft supplies. The task was simple: fill the tiny black boxes with party favors and tie them with pretty ribbons.

It wasn’t long before my ineptitude for arts and crafts became apparent. We giggled as I struggled to cut the ribbons to the correct length. Kitt burned herself repeatedly with the glue gun, and Cami, the a fore mentioned 3-year-old, kept stealing the ribbons to tie surprisingly expert bows onto her stuffed dog.

Two and a half hours later, we were 23 boxes into the required 100, 7 spools of ribbon short, and no worse for wear. Overall it was an immensely enjoyable evening.  I can’t wait to go back next week to finish the rest.

Driving home from craft mania, I reflected on my experience, and thought about Kitt’s suggestion to write about the night in my blog. I thought about the nature of kindness, and how in my quest to reach out to others, I somehow managed to exempt my friends as recipients. I thought about how important it is to be kind to those close to us, how easy it is to forget that all relationships require an effort to be kind, how we all get so caught up in our day-to-day lives, that we can lose sight of the simple pleasure of kicking back and helping a friend.

After all, there is so much we get in return.

The ‘Back on the Horse’ Baseball Cap


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The interior of Petco Park with the San Diego ...

This week has thrown me a lot of surprises. At times we are faced with challenges in life that force us to question the direction we are headed, to reevaluate our true purpose on this earth.  It was these kinds of questions hat motivated me to start this blog in the first place.  It’s these questions that motivate me to keep going, that remind me of the importance of kindness.

Being kind is not just important to recipients of kindness, but it is important to ourselves. It keeps us connected to each other. Keeps us whole.

Spring time in a wonderful time of year. A time of growth and rebirth. San Diego is beautiful in spring.  The sun shines, the flowers bloom, the beaches fill up with smiling faces from all over, flocking to the coast to take in the beauty at the ends of out earth.  But above all, Springtime means BASEBALL.

I love baseball. My boyfriend and I go to the ballpark frequently.  It’s a great way to be outdoors, celebrate life together, and share common goals and interests with strangers. Nothing brings people together quite like a mutual love of sports.

PETCO Park is a gorgeous downtown ballpark.  It site by the water and provides breathtaking views of downtown.  We had a unique opportunity to sit in a new section of the stadium, The Jack Daniel Old No. 7 Deck.  They added a patio area in right field, right down on the level of the players. Spectators get to sit at tables, have a private bar, and get to watch the game from a unique perspective. No other ballpark I know of offers such a unique place to enjoy a baseball game.

We went to the game the night of a special event. When we got to our table, there were Baseball caps with the Jack Daniel logo sitting there waiting for us. We both put them on and laughed at our good fortune. Not only were we lucky enough to receive free tickets in a high demand area of the ballpark, but here were top-notch baseball caps to boot!  The fans in the seats above us gazed down in envy as we lounged at our spacious table and enjoyed the game.

About half way through some young men leaned over the wall behind us to get a better look at our section. We chatted them up, joked about how poorly the Padres were playing, and comforted each other over the imminent loss of our beloved home team.  One of the young men looked at my baseball cap with green eyes.

“Those are sweet hats” he said. He admired the quality.  He said he would like one like it.  I took mine off my head and tossed it over the wall to him. He caught it with a huge smile. “You got to be kidding!” he exclaimed. He put it on his head and showed it off to his friends. “Thanks so much!”

I settled back down at my table with my boyfriend. He smiled at me in a knowing way. “I guess that’s your good deed” he said. I looked up at the smiling man above me, still showing off his new hat in disbelief. “I guess so” I said.

Breakfst: The Most Important Meal of My Day


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Bacon, scrambled eggs and swiss cheese on rye

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Any delicious, filling meal under $3.00 is one of the many little things in life that keep me going.  Especially sandwiches… especially  sandwiches that contain bacon.

At the grocery store next door to the hospital where I work, they have $1.99 breakfast sandwiches until 11am.  That’s right. Egg, Cheese and BACON on a yummy ciabatta roll for only $1.99. I could eat one everyday.  I almost wish I did.

After a busy few hours at work, my tummy clock started to go off. Time to eat. The 9am shift was rolling through the door as the frantic nature of the understaffed early morning environment began to become manageable. A calmness settled.

I announced it was breakfast time. “I’m going next door for some food. Anyone want anything?” I asked. Almost everyone did. Cheap fast breakfast is a staple in any well-functioning work environment. I told them all to make a list, that I was leaving in 10.

As I walked over to the store I looked over the food orders scribbled across the back of fax machine scrap paper. 9 sandwiches all together. When I got to the deli counter, Pamela was busy preparing the deli case for the day. I handed her the list and she looked it over. “Can you come back in 15 minutes?” she asked. Of course I could. No problem.

I went to the coffee stand and grabbed a few cup for my under-caffeinated, yet to be fed, coworkers. I dropped the coffee back at the hospital and went back for the food. Pamela piled all the sandwiches into bag for me, charged my card, and wish me a nice day. I thanked her and plopped the bulging bag onto the counter to make sure I had everyone’s order. I counted 10 sandwiches.

“Wait a second, I have one too many here.”  Pamela came over double-check. Sure enough, there was one extra Bacon Egg and Cheese.  She explained to me that she couldn’t re sell it. it would just go to waste. “Just take it” she said. I thanked her again and headed back to work.

I put on my sun glasses and turned my head to the warm sun. There, on the corner of the intersection, was a panhandler. I thought of the extra sandwich in my shopping bag. Squinting my eyes against the reflection of sunlight against passing cars, I stepped off the curb to walk toward him.

When I got to the corner I glanced at his sign. The usual thick black marker scrawled out the familiar words. Hungry. Anything helps. God bless. I asked if he wanted a sandwich. Of course he did.  Is bacon okay? Of course it is.

I tossed him the shiny foil wrapped square. He caught it easily before thanking me.
You’re welcome, sir. God bless you as well.

The Dinner Date


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Dinner is an important meal. It’s reserved for important people; it marks the day.

Today was my first day back at work in a while. I took a few days off to spend with my boyfriend for his birthday.  I woke up to my alarm early in the morning, still recovering from a long weekend of music, relaxation, and several fabulous dinners.
After my shift I drove home, looking forward to the transformation to ‘post work Leanne’.

I thought about dinner plans for the night.  My boyfriend hosts an Open Mic Night during the farmers Market in downtown Ocean Beach, so we rarely have time to have dinner together Wednesday’s. I decided I would grab a bite to eat at the Farmer’s Market.

I walked down the street to the entrance of the market. I heard the music and smelled the food and my the transformation was complete. I saw a familiar sight at the end of the block. Aleigha. She’s a sweet homeless lady that you can find on predetermined corners at different times of the day.  She always smiles at people as they walk by.  She’s very generous with her toothless smile. She’s a member of the community.  People know her.

She waved at me as I walked into the market. She had her wolf blanket pulled tight around her shoulders. The spring air was slightly breez, but it wasn’t cold. She has talked to me before about the importance of keeping warm throughout the day, instead of getting cold and trying to warm up.

I headed down the road to my favorite Farmers Market fare: Tamales. I waited int he line as the cheerful lady behind the table chatted to passerby in Spanish. When it was my turn, I approached the counter to her smiling face. I ordered two tamales. The usual. Medium Salsa. Gracias.

I weaved through the crowd, a steaming tamale in each had. I turned the corner next to the band.  Aleigha was there, leaning against the bike rack as always. She smiled at me again as I approached. I came up next to her and handed her the second tamale.  With a murmer of thanks, we both dug in with our plastic forks.
They are her favorite too.

As we ate we listened to the band playing cover songs.
Aleigha is having a bad day today.  She told me about her friend, also homeless, who had gotten stabbed in the alley across the street. I knew the story, I had read about it in the paper. I was sorry about her friend, but she was cheered by the warm meal and the conversation.

We talked all through dinner.  I shoveled the last bit of food into my mouth before I took both our paper trays and deposited them into the trash can at the end of the block.  I offered her a cigarette before I left, which she graciously accepted.

As I turned to leave she put her hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for dinner” she told me. “You are a really good friend.”  I was touched by her words. I put my hand over hers.
“I’m really happy that we can be friends” I told her.


The Tourist


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English: Partygoers at a foam party in Glasgow...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Sunday Funday. A day of rest.

It was cloudy day in San Diego.  The clouds rolled in early and stayed put, occasionally misting the grass with small drops of rain. I spent most of the day inside with my boyfriend. We drank coffee, played music, ate pizza, and lazed around the house. Regrouped.

Night fell and we went out with some friends. We piled into the van and ventured out of Ocean Beach to hear some music. Sufficiently rested from a rainy day indoors, we were excited to get out,  wake up, make contact.

When we arrived to our destination, I shared a cigarette outside with my friend, Chase. We were making small talk.  Enjoying each others company. All of the sudden a young girl in a short black dress bursts through the door, lights a cigarette, and smiles. Chase engaged her. “How’s your night going?” he asks. She said it had just began. She’s only just arrived, changed into her dancing shoes, and came out here. Her name was Navella, which means ship “but with an ‘ ella on the end to make it feminine.” She spoke with a thick London accent.  “I’m on an indefinite life adventure” she says. She went on to tell us she had been traveling through the U.S. attending Balboa Dance events.  “It’s a kind of swing dancing” she explained. She had arrived in San Diego 10 days ago. She loves it here.

Chase and I went inside and met up with our group. We all grabbed a beer and listened to the band belt out soulful Rock and Roll as people filled the dance floor. We danced a little before sitting down at the bar. The Griffin in San Diego is a great venue, but it gets hot. Chase and I went back outside to get some fresh air.

It wasn’t long before Navella reappeared. She lit a cigarette as she immediately launched into detailed conversation about her experiences in America. How she was getting used to adjusting everything to dollars and Fahrenheit.  How she’s been in California too long because it’s 68 degrees and she’s shivering. How she was met a stranger named Noah and she “didn’t leave is Ark until after 3 in the morning” wink wink. “My first American Shag” She announces proudly, her arms stretched into  the air.  She was fearless with her information, striving to convince us she was a carefree nomad who approaches life with abandon, a free spirit. She was noticeably more intoxicated than she was during our last encounter.

She announced she was going to the gas station down the road for more cigarettes.  Chase and I glanced at each other.  “I’ll go with you” I told her. “You shouldn’t walk alone.”  We crossed the parking to toward the store. She stumbled a little and told me more information I didn’t want to hear about Noah and his Ark.  In the harsh lights inside the gas station she looked sunburned and tired.

She raved to the patient man behind the register about the price of cigarettes.  I waited for her by the door as she bought four packs and situated them clumsily into her to small purse.  A bell chimed as we opened the door and went back outside. She stopped at the steps. “Which way do we go?” she asked.  I gestured to our right. The bar was next door.

Back in the parking lot of the bar an older man approached us. He looked at me uneasily. “Do you know this person?” he asked Navella. She draped his arms over his neck and told him I was her new friend, Leanne. I had taken her to the garage next door.
His name was Daniel. He was also a Balboa Dancer. Navella has been staying with him since she got to town.

Another, younger man appeared beside us. I had seen him inside, dancing with all the girls, twirling them around expertly. The three of them got into a lively conversation, forgetting me completely. I slipped away, confident Navella was in the hands of friends.  Hopefully, after a a dance or two, the will be able to help her find her way home.

Why You Should Always Talk to Strangers


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View of Coronado and San Diego from the air.

View of Coronado and San Diego from the air. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Like most of you, my mother used to tell me to never talk to strangers.  I disobeyed her then, and I disobey her now.

Even as a child, I was known to strike up conversations with anyone who would listen.  I love to ask people about their lives, tell them stories, get to know them.  I never understood the fear associated with those we don’t know, and I still don’t.  As an adult, I can understand my mothers reluctance to embrace my trusting, friendly disposition.  After all, you never really do know who you are talking to.  But that doesn’t stop me from striking up a conversation with just about everyone I encounter.

I had a busy day at night at work tonight.  The phones were ringing off the hook, there was a seemingly endless line of clients at the front desk, and the staff was backed up.  The lobby was full of patients, and became increasingly fuller as sick animals kept piling through the door.

After a few hours, there was a brief but welcome lull.  I popped outside to catch my breath.  I leaned up against a column on the sidewalk and watched all the people rushing around.  It was a cloudy, chilly day in San Diego, but the parking lot was as full as ever.

I wandered over to the newspaper stands to read the headlines of the day.  Same old stuff, nothing interesting.

I leaned against the wall and closed my eyes.  I took a deep breath to prepare myself for my imminent return to ringing phones, barking dogs, and frustrated clients.  I heard movement beside me. Slightly startled, I opened my eyes to see a man standing a few feet away from me, smoking a cigarette.

He was an older man, early sixties, maybe.  He looked blankly out into the parking lot, one hand in his pocket, deep in thought.  “How are you today, sir?” I asked him, cheerfully. He turned to me and smiled.  “I’m doing beautifully, just beautifully” he responded.  “And you?”  I gave him my standard response.  “Wonderful, as always.”  He liked that answer.

He asked me where I worked.  Why did I look so tired?  I told him I worked at the hospital next door, that I was having a busy day.  He chuckled a little to himself. “People have too many busy day’s” he told me. I couldn’t disagree with him.  I asked him what he was up to tonight.  “Nothing” he told me. “Just enjoying my time here on earth.  That’s what you should be doing, instead of working so hard on a Saturday night.”  Again, I couldn’t disagree.

He smiled at me, knowingly.  “It’s been a while since I’ve talked to a youngin like you.”  He had a slight southern drawl, his words seemed to emanate a slower, calmer way of life. “Do you always talk to lonely old men you see on the sidewalk?”  “Pretty much” I said. We both laughed.

I glanced at my watch and looked uneasily at the doors to the hospital.  “You look like you need to be someplace” he said, picking up on my restlessness.  “Work” I told him.  “Always work.”  He reached out to take my hand.  “Well Leanne, a nice young lady like you ought to know there are more important places for you to be than work.”  I stared at him a moment.  How did he know my name?  I had a sense deep inside of me that he was some kind of angel, sent down from heaven in a moment of stress to remind me of life’s delicate nature, to bring forth the values deep in my heart that I often ignore for a false sense of responsibility.

As if reading my mind, he gestured toward my scrub top.  “I read your name tag” he said, and laughed again.  He took my hand and shook it. “Thank you for being so kind to such an old man.  My name is Charlie.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Charlie.  I appreciate your insight.”

He released my hand as he told me drive safe tonight and to take a day off.  I waved to him as I headed back inside.

I thought about Charlie for the rest of my shift.  It really is rare to meet someone so warm, so friendly, so open with other people. I really feel like Charlie gave me something tonight, even if it was only something as simple as saying aloud something I needed to hear. It’s amazing what a smile and a hello can bring out in others.  How simply acknowledging someone can foster meaningful connections.

Sorry mom, but I’m going to keep talking strangers. I want to meet every Charlie I can find.



The Bagel


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Bagel (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Nothing bad ever came from a bagel craving.

I had such a craving this morning at work.  The tell-tale rumbling in my stomach set off my food clock around 9am, as usual.  The only thing that could sate my hunger was a big, warm, freshly baked bagel. I decided to drive down the road to the bagel store on my break.

I consulted my fellow coworkers first, like I always do.  I’m going to bagel town. Does anyone want anything?
As usual, everyone did.

I decided I would buy the baker’s dozen.  It comes in a conveniently shaped cardboard box for easy travel.  You walk in, grab a random assortment of bagels, select your two different kinds of spreads, and boom! You’re on your way to bagel bliss.

From the frig by the check out counter felt a bagel would not quite be enough.  I grabbed some orange juice from the strategically placed display, paid my bill. grabbed my purchases, and headed back to my car.

Driving out of the parking lot, I felt good.  The knowledge that I would soon be devouring more than my fair share of bread products while sipping my juice relaxed me.  Brought me comfort and a sense of ease.  I ripped the paper off straw and stabbed it into my cup of orange juice.  I was just about to take the first blissful sip when I saw her.

She stood at the exit to the parking lot.  She made eye contact as I pulled forward and smiled and waved at me, as if we were old friends.  She seemed so warm , so personable.  She held a cardboard sign to her chest. I could read it from where my car idled.  “Homeless. Hungry. Please help.”

I reached over to the passenger seat and opened the bagel box.  I grabbed a bagel at random and wrapped it in a napkin before rolling down my window.  She watched me from her post as I gestured for her to come forward.

I held the bagel out to her, and she took it as she smiled.  “God bless you” she told me.  “I really appreciate it.

I told her it was my pleasure. I hope she enjoys it.  She held my eyes for a moment as I waited for the car in front of me to pull forward.  Then she thanked me again and turned to return to her corner.

“Wait!” I cried out.  She turned around and headed back toward my car.  I handed my cup of orange juice out to her, still pristine, yet to be sipped.

“Take this too” I said.

The Recyclable’s


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#6620 recycled plastic (PET) bottles

You see a lot of interesting people put early in the morning.
The usual suspects are always around: The early commuters, the homeless people awoken by the sun, the retiree’s walking their dogs.

I am pretty familiar with the people who are in the area of the hospital I work at on a daily basis. I always see Pamela riding her bike from the bus stop in time to clock in.  The friendly bearded man sits at the corner with his cup of McDonald’s coffee. The dollar tree associates yawn as they emerge from their, regretting staying up too late the night before.

Today, I saw someone I had never seen before. He was a middle-aged Mexican man.  He was working his way down the sidewalk, clear plastic gloves on his hands, going through all the garbage cans in search for cans and bottle redeemable for cash.  I watch him from a ways away. At first I though he was part of the cleaning staff, until I saw him hauling his full garbage bag of booty back to his 15-year-old sedan, where his wife waited faithfully.

I see people in similar pursuits on a daily basis. I often think what it might be like having to wake up early in the morning to go through other people’s garbage. To be in a new country where you don’t speak the language and be resorted to sifting through their filth in hopes to make a few extra dollars off other people’s sticky soda bottles.

His wife huddles in the back seat and separated the aluminum from the plastic as her hard-working husband did the dirty work.  I sipped my coffee as I watched them.  I wonder what they rest of their day would be like.  What kind of grueling work was in store for them after they pillaged all the trash bins in the area?  Would he work construction for less than minimum wage while she cleaned houses?  Would they work their way through the city to earn $15 for their hard morning labor?

I’ve seen couples like them at the recycling centers in old town.  They haul in their findings and watch the scale anxiously as the weight settles out.  Sometimes they make 20 or 30 bucks for going through garbage all morning, a good haul from their point of view.

I sifted through the mess in the backseat of my car. I gathered all the plastic bottles and aluminum cans that had accumulated over the course of a couple of weeks (yes, in case you’re wondering, my car is filthy)  and piled them into a plastic bag.  I hopped out of my car and headed toward the nearest garbage can.  I filled the bag the rest of the way before I walked toward the women in the car.

She looked a little startled as I approached her.  I smiled. “Buenos Dias” I told her in my horrible spanish.  She smiles warmly. “Bueno” she responded.  I handed her the overflowing back of bottles and cans.  She reached her arm out the window to receive it. “Gracias” she said, obviously pleased.  She nodded several ties for emphasis.

Her husband looked back toward the car, mildly concerned. His wife spoke rapidly in Spanish to him, gesturing emphatically to the bag I had just handed her. He looked at me for a moment, slightly perplexed, before waving. “Gracias!” he hollered.  I waved back.

Having exhausted my Spanish, I just smiled and nodded as I back away toward the door of my work.  They both watched my for a moment as I left, confused by the young girl in the scrubs who dug through a garbage can for them.

Maybe they will be back tomorrow.  I don’t know for sure.  But I’m going to bring another bag of recyclable’s, just in case.

The Complimentay Orange


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Ambersweet oranges, a new cold-resistant orang...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Winter is over and spring is here. The wonderful time of year where I can where my sandals after dark and not get cold is finally upon us.  I soaked up the joy with a customary trip to the Wednesday night Ocean Beach Farmer Market.

To say I love the farmers market would be an understatement. I adore it. I look forward to it. I relish in it.  Nothing reaffirms my love for my neighborhood quite like the smells, the music, and the people of Ocean Beach on Wednesday night.

I made my usual first stop at my favorite apple cart. I took my time selecting the most delicious looking orbs of deliciousness and piled them onto the scale.  “I’ve got delicious oranges today” Apple Guy told me. I took his word for it and grabbed a couple to add to my pile. The price popped up in green numbers on the scale’s display screen. $6.52.  “That will be $4” said Apple Guy. I smiled at him.  He always knocks a couple bucks off the price when I come in.  I like to think it’s because I’m extra friendly and a loyal customer, but I suspect he does it for all the ladies.

I thanked him, said I would see him next week, and loaded up my green re-usable bag.  “Grab a couple of oranges on your way out, on the house” he told me. Score! This was a new development, and I happily obliged.

I dropped the complimentary oranges into my bag and headed on my way.  I stopped at the fish place, grabbed a couple of tacos, and brought them to my boyfriend down the street where he was working. We sat and ate, chatted a little, kissed goodbye, and I was back out in the crowded streets.

Th market was ending now. The hardworking vendors expertly broke down their pop up tents and loaded their crates into their white vans.  Last minute shoppers hastily grabbed vegetables from diminished inventory to take home to their families. People stood out in the warm night air and talked and laughed.

Further up the street, as the crowd was thinning out, I stopped to hear a busker play guitar on the sidewalk.  He finished his song and I clapped appreciatively. He began t pack up his belongings.  I stood a second and watched him look into his guitar case, visibly disappointing by the 2 dollars and change inside.

He looked up t me then, and I smiled at him.  “Not quite enough for dinner tonight” he said, motioning to his guitar case. “Doesn’t look like it” I replied. He started to put the few things scattered around into his large backpack.  He was an older man.  He stooped uncomfortably to retrieve his things. He asked me if I knew what bus went downtown from here. He wanted to try to make it to the shelter before it stopped taking people in. I told him he could catch the bus downtown on the next block up, but I was unsure what stop to get off on.  It didn’t matter anyway. We both knew he wouldn’t make before all the beds were gone.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the two free oranges Apple Guy gave me. “I know it’s no dinner, but you can have these if you want.”  He accepted graciously.  He held one of the oranges up to his dirty orange shirt. “Hey!” he said with a smile, “It matches!”  We both laughed.
I wished him well and continued on my way back home.
I hope the oranges would ease his hunger, even if just for a little while.