A Short Story… Outside the Liquor Store.
“He stood with his hands playing in his jacket’s pockets, waiting for eye contact to give him the green light to speak. Our worlds collided once we locked eyes briefly; I felt like I’d experienced this character before.”
The Friday before Thanksgiving, I stopped by a liquor store around 7 pm on the way to dinner for a bottle of wine. Some graduate students from my school had arranged a Friendsgiving for those across all programs. I’d just moved to Atlanta and had few friends, so it was convenient to meet others like myself, even if they weren’t seminary students.
The day had faded to what I imagined Atlanta looked like during the night: luminous and full of youth, and the busyness of the Friday bustle warmed the winter streets. I saw no moon, just a naked sky. This was the first time I walked into a “Package Store” in Atlanta, and to my surprise, it was stacked with shelves of alcohol.
I crept through a parking lot brightly lit by the lights of everything else around it, noting the busy pub next door that read “The Vortex” with security out front and valet parking stopping vehicles. The security guard and I exchanged mild glances through my window before nodded me to turn into the lot I was headed. The building strip had a large roof structure that overhung with animations painted over its walls, almost as if they were the expressions of a child’s imagination. Next to the liquor store was “The Beat Lab” & “The Junkman’s Daughter.”
An older black gentleman was leaning on a wall near the entrance with both hands in his pockets, not smiling, just watching. I sat in my car and surveyed the parking lot, mainly to familiarize myself with the area. Music softly whispered from my radio, “My setbacks, my hometown. My lifetime, my sun up. My sundown, my everything. My used to be, my has been.”
The man out front had slim cheeks with defined jaws and a black beard patched with gray. Old age had begun to recast the image of his face. His slender physique was tucked in a black jacket, and he wore a hat with the brim leaning over his eyes.
Usually, I’d prepare myself to be asked for money or some favor. I had the change to spare, but even if these men were poor, I often felt they had more to offer me than I did them. They had positional wealth. So it wasn’t what they had; I needed who they were. Who we are is more fulfilling than what we own.
He stood with his hands playing in his jacket’s pockets, waiting for eye contact to give him the green light to speak. Our worlds collided once we locked eyes briefly; I felt like I’d experienced this character before. I always pass homeless men, and they seem to share a universal language for soliciting– their body movements, posture, and way of speaking; this was a short trip back home. And for some reason, older men seemed to talk to a particular part of me that yearns to be acknowledged and spoken to. So, I rarely avoided interactions.
He cautiously moved toward me as if waiting all night for my arrival in particular. In his sharp, raspy voice, he spoke with sureness, confident about asking for money. I assume pride has no room for those trying to survive. “Say, young buck, mind sparing some change?”
The curiosity and concern in his murky eyes told me a dollar would alleviate his troubles this very hour. I quickly surveyed him from head to toe, then glanced toward the store entrance to look uninterested. I indistinctly shook my head without saying anything.
After almost two steps through the door, remorse replayed the echo of his question through my ears. Maybe it wasn’t guilt; perhaps it was that little boy inside of me again, desiring the interaction. All of a sudden, his problems were mine. I ruefully turned around and peeked out the door to ask if he wanted a drink. “Yeah, man, a Colt 45. Please.” I grabbed the beer inside before picking up a bottle of Silk Red Menage a Trois for the event.
The wine was organized neatly by taste, type, price, and brand. The store was quiet, but the noise the cars outside contributed to its ambiance. It was just an extension of the other side of the doors. This liquor store was less shabby and orderless than usual. I don’t drink Colt 45s, I never have. But I carried it through the store as though it belonged in my hand, and I was the one who would have it later, knowing how a young black dude purchasing cheap malt liquor on Friday night might be interpreted. But the act of love dulled any sting of shame or awkwardness.
Inside, behind the counter, was a young black woman with black glasses and a lightly brown-skinned man behind counting money from the register. He briefly looked in my direction and continued flipping bills over as if he never lost count. I took slow and fluent steps through the empty store and toward the register. A bald man stood in line tightly gripping the neck of a bottle of Hennessy, and a bronze-skinned Middle Eastern man rang me up as he tried to speak with a jaw full of food. “You can add a cigar to this as well?” I asked as I nodded toward the cabinet beside me. “No receipt.”
When I walked out, I took the brotha his drink and gave him $2. He thanked me and assured me that he’d been accepted for an apartment and was organizing his life. But the love the favor stemmed from was unconditional. I didn’t need to hear of his progress, but he offered to tell me. Maybe the confession contained the giddiness of receiving good news. I could’ve been the only one he told that night. And I assume the enjoyment of a Colt 45, for him, was the moment between good news and living within the blessing you prayed for.
I assured him I was happy for him and told him to have a great evening. He finally said, “Man, I ain’t gone be out here too much longer.” Why was he out there? Someone at home was probably waiting on him while he was “out there.” Nieces, nephews, and possibly grandchildren likely suffered because he was always “out there.”
There was no telling how he’d gotten to where he was. Besides that, what was “out here?” Was it in front of the liquor store asking for some change to buy drinks to likely feed an addiction that landed you back in front of your vice? Or did “out here” mean in the abyss of the streets where you become the proverbial old head hanging out on a corner or a prop in the story of someone who happens to record the most insignificant encounters? But the world would pass him by, just as I almost did until I realized he needed something.
After a few seconds, I turned back to him and responded, “Man, you ain’t got to.” As I waited for my car to heat up in Atlanta’s cool air, I watched him approach another bypasser and ask them for money. Indeed, my $2 wasn’t all he needed; he had the freedom to ask as much as he needed. And a Colt 45 was probably half of what he wanted. But now, I keep spare change in my car because, more than likely, I hope an older man needs it, or a Colt 45.
Told by: Kwon
