I have here a letter from Fayetteville, North Carolina.
“Dear Sean,” the handwritten letter begins. “My name is Christine and I wanted to share a story with you… In 1985 I was driving home to North Carolina, and I was probably suffering from depression. It had been a really bad year…”
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
It was nearly Christmas. Christine was stuck behind nine million miles of glowing tail lights in a traffic jam. Her 7-year-old daughter was in the backseat singing with the radio. The defroster was fogging up the windshield.
“How much longer till we get to Granny’s?” said the little girl.
“Almost there,” said Christine, just like she’d been saying every five minutes for the last four states.
Christine cranked up the radio to drown out her daughter’s interrogations. Gene Autry was singing full blast. Christine looked in the rear view mirror to see her daughter, driving an imaginary sleigh.
It had indeed been a very long, hard year. How hard? After a disastrous breakup, Christine lost everything and was kicked out of her apartment. She was homeless, and flat broke. She was going home to North Carolina to beg her estranged mother to allow her to move back in.
This trip was a last resort.
She had barely enough pennies to get them to the Old North State. She and her daughter had been surviving on JIF and Corn Nuts.
Up ahead, there was a man walking on the highway in the dark drizzle. He was wearing a tattered peacoat, his face was a veritable hair explosion. He shuffled between the standstill cars, knocking on windows, speaking to drivers in the traffic jam.
A few motorists gave him handouts; most refused to roll down the window.
In a few moments, the man was knocking on Christine’s glass.
She wasn’t sure how to respond. The protective mother in her would have ignored him, just to be safe. The human being inside her would do no such thing.
Still, she kept an attitude of caution when she talked to him. You know the attitude I mean. It’s a cold, almost impolite tone often used to address the homeless.
“Can I help you?” said Christine.
“Yes’m. I was just wondering if you had any spare quarters…”
As the words exited his mouth she realized something profound. Christine and this man were not all that different. Not really. They were both homeless. They were both broke.
The man wore fingerless gloves, his shoes looked as though they had four hundred thousand miles on the soles. He wore an Army ball cap.
“…Kinda having a rough Christmas, ma’am. Every little bit helps.”
His breath was flammable with the scent of liquor. And he smelled like sour sweat.
“I don’t have any money,” she said cooly. “I’m sorry.”
He tipped his hat. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Merry Christmas.”
The man readjusted his enormous duffle bag and began walking onward through the highway sludge. She watched the man in the glow of her high beams and felt her heart move a little.
“Wait!” she shouted.
She almost couldn’t believe what she was about to offer. She half wished she could swallow the words before they came out. But then, this felt like the right thing to do.
“How about a ride?”
In only moments, the man was thanking her lavishly, crawling into the front seat, blowing warm air into his hands. They drove in relative silence for miles. He was quiet, and a polite travel companion.
The little girl was the first to break the ice. “Are you a bum?”
Her mother scolded her.
The man smiled. “No, it’s okay.” He faced the girl. “I’m not a bum, just a traveler.”
“Are you homeless?”
“No.”
“Where’s your house?”
He pointed upward. “I got me a mansion up there.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
The little girl’s voice developed a higher pitch. “Then what’re you doing down here in the snow?”
He shrugged. “I keep asking myself the same question.”
“Are you ever lonely?”
“Ever’ day.”
“Don’t you get cold?”
“I do.”
They drove for hours. The man fell asleep in Christine’s car until the interior smelled of booze and nuclear b.o. fumes. When he awoke, the man pointed to a highway exit in the windshield. “This is where I get off, ma’am.”
She pulled over at a Shell Station. The snow was falling hard when she bid the man goodbye. For their farewell, the man removed his glove and shook her hand.
And as they pumped hands, something came over her. She pulled the man into herself for a full-on embrace. This startled the man at first, but he squeezed back.
“This is the first time I been touched in a long time,” he said.
Before they parted ways, Christine dug into her pocketbook and handed him three twenties. “I’m sorry it’s not more,” she said. “But money’s tight right now.”
The man’s eyes became glazed. Tears rolled down his face and cut flesh-colored trails upon his filthy cheeks. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
Then he was gone.
Christine walked inside the station to use the restroom, to buy some Corn Nuts, and God willing, to buy a cup of Joe that would carry her to North Carolina. When she got back to her car she found something sitting in her driver’s seat. It was a bank envelope.
Inside were three crisp hundred-dollar bills. She had no idea where they came from. And 36 years later, she still doesn’t.
“How much longer till we get to Granny’s?” shouted the little girl.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: Fayetteville
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
I have here a letter from Fayetteville, North Carolina.
“Dear Sean,” the handwritten letter begins. “My name is Christine and I wanted to share a story with you… In 1985 I was driving home to North Carolina, and I was probably suffering from depression. It had been a really bad year…”
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
It was nearly Christmas. Christine was stuck behind nine million miles of glowing tail lights in a traffic jam. Her 7-year-old daughter was in the backseat singing with the radio. The defroster was fogging up the windshield.
“How much longer till we get to Granny’s?” said the little girl.
“Almost there,” said Christine, just like she’d been saying every five minutes for the last four states.
Christine cranked up the radio to drown out her daughter’s interrogations. Gene Autry was singing full blast. Christine looked in the rear view mirror to see her daughter, driving an imaginary sleigh.
It had indeed been a very long, hard year. How hard? After a disastrous breakup, Christine lost everything and was kicked out of her apartment. She was homeless, and flat broke. She was going home to North Carolina to beg her estranged mother to allow her to move back in.
This trip was a last resort.
She had barely enough pennies to get them to the Old North State. She and her daughter had been surviving on JIF and Corn Nuts.
Up ahead, there was a man walking on the highway in the dark drizzle. He was wearing a tattered peacoat, his face was a veritable hair explosion. He shuffled between the standstill cars, knocking on windows, speaking to drivers in the traffic jam.
A few motorists gave him handouts; most refused to roll down the window.
In a few moments, the man was knocking on Christine’s glass.
She wasn’t sure how to respond. The protective mother in her would have ignored him, just to be safe. The human being inside her would do no such thing.
Still, she kept an attitude of caution when she talked to him. You know the attitude I mean. It’s a cold, almost impolite tone often used to address the homeless.
“Can I help you?” said Christine.
“Yes’m. I was just wondering if you had any spare quarters…”
As the words exited his mouth she realized something profound. Christine and this man were not all that different. Not really. They were both homeless. They were both broke.
The man wore fingerless gloves, his shoes looked as though they had four hundred thousand miles on the soles. He wore an Army ball cap.
“…Kinda having a rough Christmas, ma’am. Every little bit helps.”
His breath was flammable with the scent of liquor. And he smelled like sour sweat.
“I don’t have any money,” she said cooly. “I’m sorry.”
He tipped his hat. “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. Merry Christmas.”
The man readjusted his enormous duffle bag and began walking onward through the highway sludge. She watched the man in the glow of her high beams and felt her heart move a little.
“Wait!” she shouted.
She almost couldn’t believe what she was about to offer. She half wished she could swallow the words before they came out. But then, this felt like the right thing to do.
“How about a ride?”
In only moments, the man was thanking her lavishly, crawling into the front seat, blowing warm air into his hands. They drove in relative silence for miles. He was quiet, and a polite travel companion.
The little girl was the first to break the ice. “Are you a bum?”
Her mother scolded her.
The man smiled. “No, it’s okay.” He faced the girl. “I’m not a bum, just a traveler.”
“Are you homeless?”
“No.”
“Where’s your house?”
He pointed upward. “I got me a mansion up there.”
“Really?”
“Yep.”
The little girl’s voice developed a higher pitch. “Then what’re you doing down here in the snow?”
He shrugged. “I keep asking myself the same question.”
“Are you ever lonely?”
“Ever’ day.”
“Don’t you get cold?”
“I do.”
They drove for hours. The man fell asleep in Christine’s car until the interior smelled of booze and nuclear b.o. fumes. When he awoke, the man pointed to a highway exit in the windshield. “This is where I get off, ma’am.”
She pulled over at a Shell Station. The snow was falling hard when she bid the man goodbye. For their farewell, the man removed his glove and shook her hand.
And as they pumped hands, something came over her. She pulled the man into herself for a full-on embrace. This startled the man at first, but he squeezed back.
“This is the first time I been touched in a long time,” he said.
Before they parted ways, Christine dug into her pocketbook and handed him three twenties. “I’m sorry it’s not more,” she said. “But money’s tight right now.”
The man’s eyes became glazed. Tears rolled down his face and cut flesh-colored trails upon his filthy cheeks. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said.
Then he was gone.
Christine walked inside the station to use the restroom, to buy some Corn Nuts, and God willing, to buy a cup of Joe that would carry her to North Carolina. When she got back to her car she found something sitting in her driver’s seat. It was a bank envelope.
Inside were three crisp hundred-dollar bills. She had no idea where they came from. And 36 years later, she still doesn’t.
“How much longer till we get to Granny’s?” shouted the little girl.
“Almost there,” she said.
Almost there.