Finding Warmth

It was a bitter cold that speared through each carefully donned article of clothing, sinking through layers of skin, fat, muscle, until it penetrated deeply to the bone, leaving behind a chill that would never be forgotten. Randall Poehler held himself carefully as he took up his usual position near the subway. His clothing, all threadbare and warn, was doing little to dampen the bone-cold chill that had set in weeks before. The streets of New York were certainly not a forgiving place; a place one down on hard times, such as Randall, might find themselves calling home. ‘Home’ had long since lost its true meaning when he had received his terminal diagnosis and his wife had left him; when his medical bills had eaten him out of house and home, when his daughter had stopped taking his calls and refused him access to his grandson. Randall Poehler was well acquainted with cold and unforgiving.

Another fierce wind blew through his clothing, making him tuck his legs that much closer to his torso. His gaze lifted, hoping that some force would finally come to end his misery, only to be greeted by the usual bustle accredited to rush-hour traffic. As a young woman quickly exited the underground, her steps sure and swift, Randall couldn’t help noticing her golden, shining hair. It curled delicately around her shoulders, pinned just-so under a red beret. The color and style so reminiscent of his daughters’ lustrous locks, he found himself spellbound in a moment of nostalgia. Her clothes spoke of opulence, her handbag easily costing more than his former home’s mortgage. He liked to imagine that his Sheridan might move with this woman’s confidence.

As quickly as she had come, she was gone, leaving nothing in her wake apart from a faint sparkle where her graceful step had once trod. Still lost in his moment, it took longer for him to notice that the sparkle was no trick of light, nor of memory. He carefully rose from his curled position and approached the bit of glimmer left behind. He cautiously reached out for it, pulling in a sharp breath as his frigid fingers wrapped oh-so-carefully around the brilliance of her watch. He could tell this was an impressive piece of jewelry, certainly not a knock-off to be haggled over just a few miles away on Pike Street, but something special that must have been cherished and well cared for. He pulled it close to his face, rough and callused fingers tracing over the diamonds and platinum, turning it over to read the inscription. “Nothing is impossible. The word itself says I’m possible. -Audrey Hepburn”

For whatever some people, strangers, might say or think about a homeless man on the streets of New York, he knew what the right thing to do was. He had once been a business owner. He had owned a successful little drug store in upstate New York, hiring new employees, mentoring students from the local high school, serving as a deacon at his church. Whether or not others would have thought him mad for doing so, he stood carefully and made his way to the nearest police station.

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“Sir, I don’t know how to thank you for this!” The effusive young woman spoke musically, her words both uplifting and somewhat broken in her tears of gratitude. He found himself choking on a ball of emotions at her display.

“It’s nothing. I’m just glad you got your watch back.” His voice was gruff, sounding as though he rarely spoke to others anymore.

“Mr. Poehler, do you know what this is?” The woman, Nina her name was, finally settled back onto the bench seat next to him. He shook his head in answer. “The watch itself is valued over $300,000. It is one of the first pieces crafted by the designer Neil Petrichov. But me, I couldn’t care less for the monetary value. What makes it so special to me is that my father designed it. He gave it to me the day I earned my business degree from NYU six years ago. That was the day he told me he was diagnosed with stage four liver cancer and he was leaving his entire business to me. He died within three months. Mr. Poehler, you haven’t given me back a piece of jewelry. This isn’t just some ostentatious collection of metal and gemstones. You gave me back my father and everything he ever taught me.” Tears silently made their way down her cheeks as her delicate fingers wrapped around his cold digits. “For me, this isn’t nearly enough, but I want to reward you for turning this in to the police.” She reached into her purse, pulling out a checkbook and pen.

“No, no reward. It was the right thing to do. I’m pleased that I could give you back those memories, but, Miss Petrichov, I don’t need anything.” He shook his head back and forth, sliding himself away from her on the bench. Before he could leave, the slight young woman grasped his wrist and tucked the check into his closed fist. She met and held his eyes, her gratitude glowing from within.

“Take my card. If my father taught me anything, it was that good people are hard to come by. I would love for you to come work for me. Think about it, please.” And just as his mouth began to form words again, she was gone with the next wave of pedestrians and taxis making their way through the streets.

~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~

That night, for the first time in more months than he cared to remember, Randall Poehler was not cold. Nightfall found him kneeling beside a plush down mattress in the Park Lane Hotel NY for $70. He had been able to buy new clothes, only what was needed, at a thrift store earlier in the day. He had showered, shaved, and gotten his hair cut. As he knelt beside the bed, he made careful note to thank God for his change in luck, but not his circumstances. He couldn’t help but feel blessed for this small fortune falling into his lap, but not for what he could make of it. $20,000 and a new job could have seemed like the turning point his life needed to any outsider, but Randall knew why he had been given this opportunity. After completing his prayers, he hunkered down in the bed, carefully reading through his black notebook. He had plans to make.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Randall Poehler had once been a family man. The best neighbor and friend. He had been the one you always knew could be called on the help someone move, to donate to local charities, to help old women cross the road, to help the mother of two get her groceries to her car. Randall Poehler was also a man that never forgot the help he had been given. And so, it was that on a cold day in February Randall Poehler made his way back to the town he had raised his daughter in; the town that had given him so much to be thankful for.

His first stop had been Jeb Jeffords’ house. His best friend for over two decades, Jeb had done everything he could have to help his ailing friend; driving him to chemotherapy and radiation treatments, caring for the man when he was too unwell to cook or clean for himself, lending money for bills when the store had gone under. Randall had shared a cup of coffee with his longtime friend before handing the man an envelope thick with money and giving his thanks.

After Jeb came Father Don at his church. Father Don had been the one to include Randall in the prayer list and collection when he had fallen ill. He had been the man to sit at his bedside and give him hope for tomorrow. After saying a blessing, Randall had left another envelope in the collection basket as it had passed him by.

Randall had spent the entirety of his day making rounds to every person that had done him service in his time of need, being sure that none were forgotten. He had seen and spoken to school teachers, to doctors and nurses, to the elderly people he had served in his drug store and gotten to know so well. As the sun began to set on the day, he found himself faltering for the strength and courage to complete his journey.

When he arrived at the little house, a lovely colonial that looked cozy and cared for from the street, he found himself alone on the porch. He decided that after such a long journey, he could wait. He sat in the inviting rocking chair carefully perched on the front porch and began to write. The long written on pages of his black notebook now marred with scribbles and lines crossing through, he began composing a letter. Hours later, when the owners of the home arrived, they found an envelope gently tucked in with the day’s mail. Recognizing the somewhat harsh and slanted handwriting, shaking fingers slipped under the flap and began to read the letter.

To My Dearest Sheridan,

My daughter, I can never apologize enough for what I have put you through. I wish things could have been different. I wish my time had been enough to give you what you needed most from me, but I fear that, as you may someday learn, none of us have the answers. As adults and parents, we often think that the actions we take are what is best for the prosperity of our children, but so often we give too much of ourselves to others without first feeding the needs of those closest to us.

In the last two years, I have been cold, I have been hungry, I have been scared and lonely. I have lived without food, water, shelter, and love. I do not wish you to be sorry for taking a stand, for making a decision you thought best for yourself and your family. It was never your job to help me with my own problems. It was never your path to take care of my business when I became incapable of caring for myself. I was blessed with a beautiful family and a beautiful life, only to give all my attention to people outside of that family. I will never get to see you off to Prom, I will never get to see you off to college, I will never watch you compete in school sports or sing with the choir, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Two years ago, I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Your mother could not bare to see me through such difficult times and left. I spent every dime I had on medical treatments hoping for more life, when each treatment made me wish for death. I borrowed and borrowed and soon found myself healed of my illness with no more friends or family beside me to share it.

A kind young woman, who reminds me so much of you, gave me a job. I know, however, that my illness was never cured, that my time is not long, and that with this great boon I must do what is right and pay back what I owe. I borrowed $4,875 from you and your husband. It is enclosed in this envelope, along with the phone number of the woman I mentioned. If it’s not too much trouble, please call her and thank her for the job offer, but tell her that I am going to a better place. Her kindness and the kindness of others is what gives us all hope that this world can be better, and good things can happen to anyone. Always know, my beautiful girl, that I love you to the farthest moon and back.

Love Always,

Your Father