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Fiction Short Story

by Margaret Andrews

One Man's Trash

This downtown corner is my territory, but if I'm not there by the time the first commuter train comes by, Bernie thinks it's fair game. He doesn't understand it's a seniority thing. It's a spot far enough away from the coffee shop door so I don't bother people going inside, but it's close enough to let them know I'm there. I sit on two steps that lead to nowhere. The little awning above it provides shade when it's too hot and helps keep the rain off of me.

Tom Bailey buys me coffee every morning. He's a motormouth but he has a good heart. He runs the local Youth At Risk program down the street. A few weeks ago, Tom came over to me after I'd mumbled something about spare change. Not only do you have to be in the right place, you have to use an appropriate volume. That way, the people who don't want to hear you can ignore you with a clear conscience. I know what it's like to be in their place.

Tom shakes my hand, introduces himself and says "What's your name?" I can't remember the last time someone asked me that.

"Jack," I said.

"Well, Jack. I don't have any cash on me, but I'll buy you a cup of coffee and some breakfast with my credit card."

"Thanks. That's very generous of you." I think he was surprised I accepted his offer of food, considering that whole They'll-Just-Spend Money-On-Liquor attitude that seems to plague everyone.

"Well, come on then," he said.

I stay out of the store as much as possible. Otherwise, we're all uncomfortable. "How about I trust your judgment?" I say. "I ain't picky."

Tom brings out breakfast and sits down and talks to me like we're two regular guys jabbering before work. I'm sure I stink something awful, but he doesn't show it. I appreciated that.

Every morning after that he brings me a cup of coffee and we talk, so I make sure and wash my hands so he can shake a clean hand. He never wiped off his hands in my presence. Kinda nice, the thought of someone sparing your feelings like that.

Tom tells me about his family, shows me pictures. He has two little girls. He talks about his work like he can save the world. He says they have more kids on the program than they can afford to help. I don't have anything I'm proud to talk about and he doesn't ask. I can tell he's curious. We'll be talking about his family or something and it's that part of the conversation where the next logical thing for him to say would be, 'So what about you?' and I can see him almost say it, pause, and then say something like, 'Yeah, so.". Like I can jump right in if I want to, but to be honest, it's none of his business and I don't want to dredge up the past. Although, if I ever have a good mind to say something, it would be to Tom.

One afternoon, someone unintentionally hears me. I must have spoken too loud. He marches angrily toward me and tells me to get a job, I'm a leech on society, blah, blah, blah. As if I hadn't heard it before and his speech will make a difference. Maybe he was just showing off for his friends.

"You know what?" he said. "You can have everything in my pockets!" And he throws a smattering of stuff at me: papers, gum wrappers, and a couple of pennies. Tells me don't spend it all in one place.

I pick it all up. I may be a bum, but I like a clean sidewalk. Besides, some litter can be useful. One man's garbage is another man's treasure, right? Turns out this guy's trash is worth ten million dollars, after taxes. All due to a piece of paper with six numbers on it.

I tell the officials that I want to be anonymous. They say I can avoid media interviews, but that lottery results are public record, and they might still find me. I like my privacy and didn't want any attention, so I wait a while before making any big moves. I keep my post at the coffee shop, hang out with Tom Bailey, just sort of forget about the money for awhile. A few weeks later, there was a real big lottery and nobody was interested in finding out who I was anymore.

The first thing I buy is a new outfit at the thrift store; they wanted fifteen dollars! Then I go to a motel to shower and sleep. The mattress is so comfortable, I sleep all night and the next day. I put on my new clothes and go out for a proper dinner. Appetizers, salad, steak, dessert and lots of coffee. I must have asked for at least four refills. The waitress gives me some stern looks until she sees the tip I leave.

I do that for two weeks, but it gets kind of boring after awhile. Nobody to talk to. And to tell you the truth, I miss my steps. And maybe Tom Bailey. I pack my rucksack, another thrift store item for which I paid the princely sum of eight dollars, and decide to get some coffee and a raspberry scone like a real customer.

Bernie's on my turf. He's standing too close to the door, upsetting people. They don't need that kind of start to their day.

"What're you doing, Bernie? You're agitating everybody, man. You're in my spot. Go back to your own place."

"You left, Jack. I thought you died or somethin'."

"You wish. You've been coveting my concrete slab for months. Now, get."

"What do you care where you hang out? It don't make no difference who's here. We're all the same to them."

"No, they know me here. They trust me."

Bernie laughs and wheezes until he coughs. "Oh yeah, they know you," he says sarcastically. "No one would know if you kicked the bucket tomorrow."

"Jack!" Bernie and I turn to see Tom Bailey. "Where have you been? Boy, have I missed you. Let me run in and get you a cup of coffee. I'll be right back." He pointed at me. "Don't go anywhere."

Bernie whistles through his missing teeth. "Well, I'll be."

"Well, you go and be around the block. Time for you to move along now." I sit and think about how I, a rich man, can take a cup of coffee from a man who earns his keep. Tom comes out with a steaming cup of brew that a few minutes ago I had intended to buy for myself.

"So, did you go on vacation?" he jokes, hoping to get some peek at my personal life.

"Something like that. I didn't think anyone would notice, really."

"I noticed. I missed you, Jack. You probably have no idea that you are the highlight of my day."

I snort, but he looks sincere. "Serious?" I ask.

"It's hard to explain, but starting the day doing something nice for someone, for the price of a cup of coffee. I don't know. I just missed you. Welcome back." And he hugged me.

A week later, Tom sits down next to me on my roost. "Great news, Jack!" he says. Our Youth At Risk program will be expanding to help every kid that comes in until I don't know when! A long time! I just can't believe it. Some anonymous donor gave us nearly ten million dollars. Jack, this changes everything. Do you have any idea what impact this has on the children of this community?"

"That is good news," I say.

"Someone did a very generous thing, Jack. I only wish I could I could thank him personally."

I take a long contemplative breath. "You know, I was married once."


About the Author
Margaret Andrews is a computer programmer slash writer who rides the Southwest Airlines fence between Los Angeles and Sacramento. Her short stories have appeared in Toasted Cheese, Long Story Short and The Glut. She recently placed in an Elk Grove Public Library Short Story Contest and won honorable mention in the Writer's Digest Short Story Contest. She is currently working on her first novel, A Slice of Heaven. The inspiration behind "One Man's Trash" came from a situation where her husband offered to buy a homeless man a meal with his credit card because he didn't have any cash on him, and the homeless man felt uncomfortable going into the café.