In and Around Newport

At Starbucks, Newport, RI

                Coffee in hand, I locate a seat. I sit, look around and take a sip. 

 

                I notice a slight woman nearby. She's dressed in a tank top and shorts. Her cheeks are sunken and her hair matted. She is sitting with her elbows propped on the table, her hands wrapped around a paper cup with tea. The string and tag from the tea bag rest on her knuckle. I notice a dark blotch beneath her left eye. 

 

                A bruise? 

 

                I hope not. 

 

                A very content, handsome baby is next to her chair, on the floor, in a car seat. The woman is running her hand over the floor next to the car seat the way a blind person would search for an object. I see a child’s toy just beyond her reach. I decide to walk toward her.

 

                “May I help you? Are you looking for the toy?” I say.

 

                “Yes,” she responds.

 

                “Are you blind?”

 

                “Yes.”

 

                “Is there anything else that you need? Are you OK?” I ask as I hand her the toy. She concentrates on reaching toward the baby, feeling for the child’s hands, to give him the toy. The baby, takes the toy. I again notice his bright and happy eyes, same as they were without the toy.

 

                “Thank you,” she says.

 

                “You’re welcome,” I say. “Your baby is a beautiful child. A boy?" I add, noticing blue colors.

 

                “Thank you,” she says. “We’re just waiting for my husband. Yes, boy.” 

                I hope some more - that the story about the husband is a fact and that he is wholesome looking with a gracious manner, but I don’t stay to witness this. I speculate that the baby looks too good, too wholesome himself, for anything to be amiss. The woman is at a table in the center of the café, people all around her. The staff and other customers seem not to be concerned about her. I conclude that all is OK. That she has been here before, that she is well known in this cafe in Newport, RI.

 

               I wait for a time, several minutes. Eventually I decide to leave, but as I do, stepping out to the street, thoughts of the woman, her baby and her circumstance stay with me.             

               

               For days, and beyond I think about the woman and her child. What could I have done? I could have inquired to the Starbucks staff and made sure all was OK? I should have done that, because despite feeling all was well, at least I would have felt more content.

                All I can think is that I did something - I picked up the toy. That's all. 

Out on the Street

The day moves along. 

 

It is now evening, after dark, I am walking on Thames Street, a main thoroughfare in Newport, RI. 

 

An elderly gentleman approaches me as I'm licking a cone of frozen yogurt. The man is dressed in a plain white tee shirt and long pants. The shirt is old, but it's clean, thin material, a well-worn look, but not wrinkled. He's not a tourist, I decide.

“Ice cream cone is not good for you," he says, "not at your age - no." 

I look his way, give a half smile and pause, eying him for a second without speaking. Finally I offer, “I know. It’s yogurt, but you're right, not that good." Then add, "Nice night for a walk.”

To which he responds, “I’ve been in the house for six months. I was afraid to come out. I got very nervous. Every time I came out I got nervous. The doctors didn’t know anything.”

I consider my words. Do I want to start a conversation here? 

 

Finally I say, “Can you sleep at night?” I think of my own trouble, and try to commiserate. If he's able to sleep, things are not so bad.

His answer: “My parents were born in the Azores. It’s near Portugal. I have eight brothers and sisters, my father died when I was six. I came here when I was twelve.”

Hmmm. 

 

I'm unsure how to respond.

“Yeah, well …,” I say, but my thoughts trail off.

 

 Finally I offer, “You’ll be OK, just keep walking, going outside. Don't stay indoors.” I look him in the eye. He seems harmless, my age, maybe a bit older, but with a full head of gray wavy hair, so I add, “You’re a young guy.”

“I’m eighty-five.”

This does shock me. “Really!" I say, "I’m sixty eight. I thought you were younger than I was. You look it.” This is a minor exaggeration. Though he holds a walking stick, he appears to get on well without it. Plus he converses with full animation, and a strong voice. Never would have guessed his age. If, in fact, it's true.

 “No," he says, "you’re a good looking man; you're young looking.” 

The man is eighty five, an apparent agoraphobic, possibly somewhat off mentally and a complete stranger. So why do I feel myself liking his compliment? Plus I am inclined to accept it, like believing him, despite the questionable circumstances. Doesn't take much, I think to myself.

.

                “Yes, yes,” I say, as if to politely dismiss his kind thought. "That was nice of you to say that."

“You’ll get married again,” he now says. OK, this is strange. How does he know I'm not married?

“Make sure you get married again,” he says, as parting words.

"OK," I say, then with a friendly wave I'm on my way.

Continuing my walk, I give this a little thought: Minutes ago I was strolling alone down the main street of this vacation city. I definitely wasn't thinking about getting married, but it did occur to me as I stepped along the sidewalk that it would be nice if I had some company, a girlfriend, on this night. Then I meet this character and ...

Just a little bizarre, no?

Months later, also in Newport. In the Car, at a Light

                I am in a traffic line in Newport, RI. I am waiting for a green light when I notice a man weaving down the sidewalk, coming toward my car. He's a bit unsteady. Suddenly he stops, bends down reaching for something on the walk. It's a cigarette butt. 

                He plucks it from the pavement. 

                Straightening up now, still tottering, he holds the cigarette with two fingers in front of his nose -inspecting it. His face is whiskered, and his complexion is purplish, i.e. overly tanned. I know the look - homeless, I assume.

               Suddenly he flings the butt into the gutter. Not up to his standards apparently. 

This time, I just happen to be riding with someone, girlfriend, in fact, who smokes, and a pack of Marlboros are sitting next to me on the console between the front seats. I reach over, pull out a new Marlboro. I roll down the window. The man looks at me. I flip the Marlboro his way.

 “A cigarette for you,” I say.

He hears me and his glistened eyes catch site of the white stick as it falls on the sidewalk in front of him. Again he bends down, stretching gingerly toward the pavement, tottering. Suddenly, he lurches forward. He steps on the cigarette - mashing it.

What to do?

I'm still at the light so I quickly grab another. “One more,” I say, tossing the second. He smirks, to himself, eying the new cigarette on the walk. With some effort, gives a half smile to me. I take it as gratitude. He looks back down, trying to focus. He bends slowly again. This time he succeeds.

I catch his smile, albeit labored. The light changes and I roll forward. Now I second-guess my humanitarian gesture, a gift of a cigarette. Not humanitarian at all. But for him, a small comfort.

I look over at my friend. Should I mention again the bad effects of smoking? My friend has her eyes straight ahead. She knows what I'm thinking.

“Was that a humanitarian gesture?” I ask.

“Not really,” she replies.

              We continue on. I decide that I feel good about it regardless