He approached me along an empty Sunday morning street. Unsteady on his feet and reeking of liquor, he politely asked for spare change. I gave him a coin and a smile, assuming he would move on. Instead, what followed was 10 minutes of pure grace.
Surprised by the coin, he steadied himself. He searched my face through filthy spectacles. Satisfied, he said, “You know that coin you gave me is going right down my throat, don’t you? I’m on the drink. I can’t help it. I just thought you should know. I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity”. I nodded without judgement, amazed by his honesty.
He then asked my name. It turns out we are namesakes. As proof, he pulled out a crumpled birth certificate which, for reasons unknown, he carries in his back pocket. Charles is 62, short, stout, weathered from a hard life. He is a native of the small English town where we met that morning. He spent a few happy years in Canada, another bond between us. He now lives in a shelter run by the local church that he describes as “Nice folk, but with their head up their ass.”
Standing together on the empty village street, his story flowed out. There was no boasting and no desire for pity in its telling. It was not the afflicted drunken ramble of someone in a bar. His only purpose was connection. For my part I mostly just listened, humbled by the unselfconscious honesty of this man, gently sharing his brokenness without wallowing in it.
Charles’ wife died of cancer in her 40s and left him with four kids. He stole cars to make ends meet, did some time in prison. He wept as he recalled his two girls killed in a car crash. He opened his shirt to show me their names tattooed over his heart. I asked about the angry scar on his collar bone. Knifed by some arse-hole in a pub in Wales. He often drinks in Wales since most local pubs have banned him.
The names of his boys, Bradley and Kevin, are inked on each arm. Bradley has two kids: “Them grandkids love me. Think I’m the greatest bloke alive. They’re the reason I never give up. Even at rock bottom on the drink, I will never give up. Never.” As he said this, I knew it to be true.
He caught my eye as I glanced down at his massive, bruised hands. He remarked that he had knocked someone out with a single blow at the pub the previous evening. When I asked why, he said “You just can’t talk filth in front of ladies like that Charles. I mean, I had a daughter and a wife. Nobody should talk to a lady like that bloke was doing last night. Next time, he’ll think about it”.
As my bus approached he reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny copper penny. It had a hairpin bent around it. He gave it to me. “I do this when I find a new penny lying about”, he said. “Give this to someone you love Charles”. We shook hands in parting, his iron grip like that of a stonemason. It’s the only time in my life that I wished for my bus to be late.
[If you know others who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]
