A Random Act
I stepped down from the bus and into a puddle of slush. The throngs of people heading to their offices and shops in downtown Pittsburgh thinned as I turned the corner at 9th Street and headed for the Penn Avenue Homeless Shelter. The building, long-since abandoned with the exception of the first floor shelter, loomed against the grey winter sky.
Four women huddled in the entryway as I approached, each carrying a variation of trash bags and shopping bags advertising Pittsburgh's finer department stores. I greeted them and extracted the key from my pocket. A chill to match the damp December morning was less than welcoming inside the large, open space. I hurried to turn on the two electric space heaters—the building had no working heat yet. I'd been told it would be repaired 'soon'. That had been two weeks earlier.
The women claimed the more comfortable chairs and pulled from their pockets the fruit they had been given before leaving the night shelter a few hours earlier. The daytime shelter was intended to provide a safe, warm, dry place for the homeless to spend the day off the streets. Unfortunately, the building provided only a space, relatively safe. But with no back-up staff, there were days my adrenaline ran on overload. Small differences could escalate into physical altercations between our guests in a matter of seconds.
On this particular day, sleet rained down heavily outside our doors. Inside, buckets collected the moisture that dripped at a swift pace through the ceiling from the roof five stories above. The fluorescent lights flickered and hummed, and the coffeemaker growled and sputtered.
Throughout the morning, homeless persons came and went. None stayed very long. The truth was, other than blocking the wind, the shelter offered little in the way of comfort from the elements. I sat behind my desk, huddled in my down jacket, ensuring each visitor signed in and out. A small space heater blasted at my feet. I had already received the call telling me the volunteer who would relieve me for lunch had called off today. I was on my own.
At 12:30, the shelter was vacant with the exception of myself and one woman, Mary. She sat hunched over the battered coffee table in the sitting area and counted out change. I could hear the clink and scrape of the coins on the table's surface. She shuffled the coins into her palm and stood, carrying her two overly-stuffed shopping bags.
"I know I'm not supposed to ask this, but can I leave my bags with you for five minutes? I'm just going across the street to the bus station, but I'll be right back," she said.
The place was empty. The other homeless folks had sought true shelter at the bus station or in the restroom lounges of one of the department stores. One rule stated that no one could leave their belongings when they left the shelter. But there should have also been a rule that a shelter offered warmth. "Sure. I'll be here." I accepted her bags and set them behind the desk, out of sight.
Minutes later, Mary returned, a Burger King bag in her hand. She came over to my desk and set the bag in front of me. "This is for you," she said.
I was stunned. "Oh, I'm fine," I replied.
But she shook her head and nudged the bag closer to me. "You can't sit here all day for us and not have something to eat. It ain't right." She then reached into her pocket with a shabbily-gloved hand and pulled out an orange, setting it next to the bag. "Eat this, too. I got an extra one this morning. The vitamin C is good for you in this weather."
I opened the bag to find a wrapped burger, complete with cheese that would have cost extra. Tears of humility pressed at my eyes. This homeless woman who most people would walk past on the street without notice, or stare at with disdain, had taken the last of her change to buy me lunch. "Will you share it with me?" I asked. I'd feel better about accepting this if she enjoyed some of it, too.
"No. It's for you," she insisted.
And I realized that to refuse the gift would be to diminish her even further. "Thank you," I said, wondering how I would manage to choke down each bite of the burger without bursting into tears.
She beamed. "You're welcome." With that, Mary took her bags, poured herself a cup of hot coffee, and resumed her station on the threadbare sofa.
Long before Oprah encouraged us to perform random acts of kindness, Mary had the program down.
Linda Rettstatt
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