A Hot, Guilty Meal
This story was inspired by this video, which I took last spring:
A man removes his hat.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, as a speck of saliva flies from his mouth and lands on the floor of the subway train.
He wears a green backpack on his shoulders; it contains three shirts, stained yellow from sweat; four pairs of socks, and two pairs of underwear, also yellowed; and a soft plastic water bottle that is empty.
“My name is Terrance, and I haven’t eaten in two days. I was born without a left hand, so I couldn’t get work. This cleft palate didn’t help either. When it’s cold out, I sleep on a steam grate. I’m just trying to buy a sandwich. Any help you can give me, I’d be very grateful.”
He walks through the center of the train with a Styrofoam cup in his right hand. It contains his day’s earnings: two quarters, three dimes, and eight pennies. He keeps his head down to show deference, humility.
The first man he passes is in shorts and a t-shirt. His name is Steven. He’s coming from a weight-lifting session, and he drinks milk mixed with protein powder in a clear, solid, plastic bottle. He’s standing in front of an empty seat — sitting is the new smoking, he’s heard; the human body is meant to be upright. He’s holding the metal bar attached to the roof of the train. It doesn’t require much of a flex, but he likes showing off his biceps. In his duffel bag is a new jar of cookies-and-cream whey protein; he bought it before leaving the gym. As Terrance passes, Steve reaches down for the jar and studies the nutritional information label.
Sitting nearby, her face narrow, her legs crossed, Martha is on her way home from work. It was another miserable day; when you’ve got 20 years on the next-oldest person in the office, sometimes you become the buzzkill just because everyone’s afraid of you. Not long ago, she was diagnosed with osteoporosis. As Terrance approaches, she stares straight ahead. When he’s past, she grabs a handful of high-calcium almonds.
Next to Martha is Emily. She’s 19 and just finished her shift at a vegan health food store. It was a slow day. One man bought steel-cut oatmeal. A woman bought a can of lentil soup. Someone whose gender she was unsure of bought a bag of frozen, organic blueberries. Emily hates the subway — it smells bad, and her parents tell her it’s dangerous. The second she walks into the station, she puts her head down and headphones in, turns the volume up, and tries not to make eye contact with anyone. She has not heard Terrance’s words, but she notices his presence, and she stares blankly at her cellphone.
Terrence looks left and right, then again as he passes, hoping without hope to see someone reach into their pocket for a coin. He’s used to the rejection, to the game of it all: He’s acting and they’re acting and it’s all an act.
But then: “I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Miguel says, his fresh face scrunched in anger, his high-pitched voice cracking. He’d thought about doing this before, had even planned what to say, but never had the guts. Today just felt like the day. “Did you hear what he said? You, with your privileged lives, vain pursuits — with your nice clothes, your bougy food, your cellphone … and this man has nothing, and you won’t even give him the dignity of a look? Shame on you. Shame on you all.”
Miguel reaches into his pocket. “This is all I’ve got,” he says. He drops a $10 bill into the cup and as it rustles against the Styrofoam, the train comes to a stop, the doors open, and before Terrence can even say thank you, Miguel stalks off, with a snort of disgust at his fellow humans. How can they — how can the world — be so cruel?
Terrence had intended to get off the train too, but now he senses an opportunity: The guilt is eating at the others, eating away, crawling in their brains.
He makes another pass through the train. Hands reach into pockets. Emily forks over two quarters and a penny. Martha gives a dollar bill. Steven has four dimes and a nickel. Terrence says a soft but sincere thank you to each.
At the next stop, he gets off the train with $12.84. He emerges from the subway station onto a busy street at dusk. He walks a block, then another. He passes a KFC — might be good, but I can do better, he thinks. And then he sees it around the corner, one block further, the solution to his hunger for the next … he thinks about the free peanuts … the next week, even. Five Guys Burgers and Fries.
He pauses a moment outside the sliding glass door. He licks his fingertips, mats down his hair, and walks in. No one is in line.
“Bacon cheeseburger with everything. Large fries and a vanilla milkshake.” The cashier punches the order into a computer. “That’ll be $12.80,” she says as Terrence pulls out and counts every last coin. “For here or to go?”
“To go,” he says, because store managers like to shoot him dirty looks.
While his burger cooks, he slinks toward the soda machine, where the peanuts are. With a look over his shoulder to see if the cashier is looking (she isn’t), he picks up the scooper and a paper bag and shovels in peanuts until it’s full. He unzips his backpack and stuffs the peanuts inside.
His order is ready. He thanks the cashier, picks up the hot bag and milkshake and walks out with long, fast strides. He turns right, then left, not knowing where, his stomach growling and his mouth watering and his nose full of the smell of French fries. He spots a bench, sits down, and tears into his bag.
With an empty belly and a dry mouth, he bites into the burger and his teeth sink into it and he leans back and chews slowly, savoring the salty meat and the soft, starchy bun and the sweet, grilled onions. He bites again into the burger, and before he can swallow, he reaches for fries, and in they go and the crunch is music. He reaches for the milkshake, jams the straw in, and sips long and hard. The sweet, cold ice cream washes the food down into his throat and for that moment, he is no longer on the bench, he is no longer carrying all his earthly possessions in his backpack — he is enjoying the meal of a young man, a rich man, a man with no worries or cares, a man who doesn’t have to beg.
Suddenly, someone approaches, his hand extended, his palm out. “Excuse me, can you spare a dollar so I can catch the bus?”
“Sorry, can’t,” Terrence says and returns to his burger. He stuffs a massive bite into his mouth. He chews loudly and slowly.
“Um,” says Nathan, standing nearby on the sidewalk. “How dare you! You, sitting there stuffing your face with food … it’s not that you CAN’T spare a dollar. It’s that you won’t.”
Terrence reaches into the paper bag, takes out a napkin, dabs his lips. He stands, looks at Nathan, and says: “Do you have any idea — how much humiliation, how hard I’ve begged? Once a month I get a good, hot meal. You will not take from me one second of pleasure. I will not feel guilty for my good fortune.”
If you enjoyed this story — and even if you didn’t — you should check out my book, Ticketless: How Sneaking Into The Super Bowl And Everything Else (Almost) Held My Life Together.
