It was a
bitterly cold Denver morning. This was a day for staying home, for having a
cold and waiting for mom to bring a cup of soup. That was the way the day was
supposed to be.
I had a job
speaking at the Denver Convention Center to a couple hundred other people who,
like me, were unable to have the sniffles and stay home for Mom to bring us
soup. Instead, we gathered at the Convention Center, unable to do more about
the weather than to talk about it.
I needed a
battery for my wireless microphone. I had failed to pack a spare.There was no
choice, really. I needed a battery. So I headed into the wind, head bowed, and
collar up, shuffling in too-thin dress shoes.
Around the
corner, I spotted a small sign announcing that a 7-Eleven convenience store was
within sight. If I walked quickly and lengthened my stride, I could reach the
front door and shelter from the brisk wind without drawing a breath of
lung-burning air. People who live in Denver like to play with outsiders by
telling them that winter in Denver means enduring a pleasant kind of cold.“It’s
a much drier kind of cold,”report the Denver folks, when their relatives ask
how they like life in the mile-high city. Drier, my foot! It’s cold enough to
give the famous brass monkey reason to move.
Inside the
7-Eleven were two souls. The one behind the counter wore a name badge saying
she was Roberta. Judging by her appearance, Roberta probably wished that she
were home bringing hot soup and soothing words to her own little ones. Instead,
she was spending her day manning an outpost for commerce in a nearly abandoned,
downtown Denver. She would be a beacon, a refuge for the few who were foolish
enough to be out and about on a day so cold.
The other
refugee from the cold was a tall, elderly gentleman who seemed comfortable with
his surroundings. He was in absolutely no hurry to step back through the front
door and risk sailing through town at the mercy of the wind and ice-covered
sidewalks. I couldn’t help but think that the gentleman had lost his mind or
his way. To be out on such a day, shuffling through the merchandise of a
7-Eleven, the man must be completely daft.
I didn’t have
time to be concerned with an old man who had taken leave of his senses. I
needed a battery, and there were a couple hundred important people who had
things left to do with their lives waiting for me back at the Convention
Center. We had a purpose.
The old man
somehow found his way to the counter ahead of me. Roberta smiled. He said not a
single word. Roberta picked up each of his meager purchases and entered each
amount into the cash register. The old man had dragged himself into the Denver
morning for a lousy muffin and a banana. What a sorry mistake it was!
For a muffin
and a banana, a sane man could wait until spring and then perhaps enjoy the
opportunity to saunter the streets when they had returned to reasonableness.
Not this guy. He had sailed his old carcass into the morning as if there were
no tomorrow.
Perhaps there
would be no tomorrow. After all, he was pretty old.
When Roberta
had figured the total, a tired, old hand fished deep into the trench coat
pocket. His fishing hand caught a change purse as old as the man himself. A few
coins and a wrinkled dollar bill fell onto the counter. Roberta treated them as
though she were about to receive a treasure.
When the
meager purchases had been placed into a plastic bag, something remarkable
happened. Not a word had been spoken by her elderly friend, an old tired hand
slowly extended over the counter. The hand trembled, and then steadied. Roberta
spread the plastic handles on the bag and gently slipped them over his
wrist.The fingers that dangled into space were gnarled and spotted with the
marks of age.
Roberta smiled
larger.
She scooped up
the other tired, old hand and in an instant, she was holding them both,
gathered in front of her brown face. She warmed them. Top and bottom. Then
sides. She reached and pulled the scarf that had flown nearly off his broad but
stooped shoulders. She pulled it close around his neck. Still he said not a
single word. He stood as if to cement the moment in his memory. It would have
to last at least until tomorrow, When he would once again shuffle through the
cold. Roberta buttoned a button that had eluded the manipulation of the old
hands. She looked him in the eyes and, with a slender finger, mockingly scolded
him.“Now, Mr. Johnson. I want you to be very careful.”She then paused ever so
lightly for emphasis and added sincerely,“I need to see you in here tomorrow.”
With those
last words ringing in his ears, the old man had his orders. He hesitated, and
then turned, and one tired foot shuffling barely in front of the other, he
moved slowly into the bitter Denver morning. I realized then that he had not
come in search of a banana and a muffin. He had come in to get warm in his
heart.
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