Two Bagels and a Coffee

In my mind, there’s no better place to toil away for hours on schoolwork than a local coffee shop. The indiscriminate chatter, high-pitched machinery, and mellow soundtracks are, oddly enough, all conducive to my ability to concentrate, so the raucous ambience is always a welcomed familiarity. Additionally, there’s the unspoken camaraderie of the other patrons—elderly folk who spend their time knitting, curious children who never seem to run out of questions, and fellow students who often appear to be suffering just as much as I am. All of it is favorably ordinary.

What’s decidedly less ordinary is to have a stranger say to you, “I should just get up on a bridge and jump.”

The air was more blustery than usual on the day I met that stranger. It was the kind of merciless wind that forces you to clutch at your books and fold yourself over your papers until it settles again. I didn’t have any books out that day, given that I didn’t get the chance to remove them from my bag, but I remember how the napkins I’d grabbed along with my beverage had folded and billowed in on each other like the belly of an accordion each time the wind picked up. I remember the way the frigid air seeped through the fabric of my sweater and grazed over my skin like phantom fingers, painfully ironic in its reminder that I had a heated car and home to return to at the end of the night.

Nothing was more enticing than the aroma of freshly-ground beans that wafted towards me when I first approached the coffee house. It hit all the markers for the standard college crowd, effortlessly attracting students with its eye-catching urban exterior, covered outdoor seating, and conveniently placed extension chords. In gold lettering, the words Northwest Coffee gleamed beneath the unfiltered sunlight, standing out starkly against the light grey brick of the building. When I first stepped through the gated entrance, I immediately felt at home.

It wasn’t particularly crowded that day, given that it was nearly five o’clock in the evening, so I had no trouble securing an empty table. It was no more than five minutes before I was getting settled in, placing my large vanilla latte on the table and pulling my laptop from my bag.

I’d just slipped my card holder into the inside pocket when a voice sounded a few feet away from me.

“Excuse me— —” a man started, a slight rasp to his hushed tone, only to be cut off by a woman’s curt reply.

“I don’t have any cash, sorry.”

Absently, I lifted my gaze from my bag to observe the exchange, briefly studying the two young women that occupied the table adjacent to my own before shifting my attention to the man that hovered next to it. I took in the thin blue fleece of his jacket and the drawstring bag on his back as he replied to the woman.

“Nah, I’m not askin’ for cash…” He told her, trailing off until he was mumbling in a tone so low I couldn’t make out what he was saying. Then, “I haven’t eaten in six days.”

Something sharp stirred in my chest at his words, tightening like a clenched fist around my heart. It squeezed briefly, fervently, leaving a dull ache in its wake. The sensation only grew as the man retreated towards the next table over, his strides slow and hesitant.

I knew for a fact that I didn’t have any cash on me and for a moment, the realization settled like a stone in the pit of my stomach. Then, with a spark of assurance, I remembered the small assortment of bakery items sitting behind the glass display inside.

As soon as the thought entered my mind, I was up and out of my chair, warmth blooming in my chest as I made my way inside the shop. It was only a minute or two before I emerged again with two pre-wrapped plain bagels in hand.

My gaze flitted briefly over the seating area before landing on the man. He was seated at a marble-top table, his frail form slumped against the back of the metal chair as he spoke with the woman standing beside him. Relieved that he hadn’t slipped out yet, I quickened my steps, slowing them again once I reached the woman’s side. I waited for a lull in their conversation before excusing myself for the interruption and offering the man the two bagels.

For a few moments, the man continued his conversation without acknowledging my presence, his gaze still trained on the woman as he absently accepted the food. Once he finished his thought, though, his eyes lowered to the table, an indecipherable look flickering across his expression as he eyed the bagels.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you more,” I murmured quietly, feeling compelled to fill the silence.

The man turned one of the bagels over in his hands for a moment, refusing to meet my eyes. Then, finally, he muttered, “I’m ashamed.”

I shook my head minutely to myself, confused as to what he was referring to, but he didn’t seem to notice. He appeared to be lost in thought, one of his fingers idly picking at the edge of the plastic wrap before he continued.

“E’r’ytime somebody gives me somethin’, I’m ashamed I can’t get nothin’ for myself. I ain’t got nobody in my corner. Hell, I been thinkin’ I should just get up on a bridge and jump, ‘cause I ain’t got nothin’ and nobody to live for.”

Behind me, a plate clattered against a table, followed by the clink of silverware. In the distance, a car horn honked; a dog barked furiously. It all felt like background noise—hushed cacophonies whispered into the abyss of the suffocating silence that ensued. I held my breath as though the ground beneath my feet would crumble in the wake of the slightest disturbance.

The woman—a waitress for the restaurant adjacent to the shop, I realized afterward—took the beat of silence as her opportunity to excuse herself, explaining that she had to return to work. As I watched her go, a thread of panic unspooled in my chest. She was an adult, someone much wiser and more responsible than me, and I hadn’t the slightest clue about how to handle this situation alone.

I desperately raked my brain for some sort of reassurance, some consolation to counter the morbidity of the man’s words, but the longer I stood there without a single sentence to offer, the heavier the harsh reality of my helplessness pressed against my sternum.

This wasn’t my little brother worrying that his coloring page wasn’t neat enough. This wasn’t my friend experiencing a depressive episode that would inevitably ease and pass. This wasn’t something I could offer a quick solution to or provide a distraction from. It felt as though this man’s life was propped upon my shoulders when I was barely able to bear the weight of my own.

I didn’t have an answer and it terrified me.

So, I did the only thing I could think of: I sat down.

There were few lulls in his speech from that moment on. Each minute presented new information about him—things that I couldn’t ever hope to know about the majority of the people in my life were given freely and without hesitation. He trusted me with the kind of personal details that I seldom told my closest friends even after years of knowing them. It wasn’t difficult to reach the conclusion that he had no one else to share them with.

The interaction was wildly unfamiliar to me. I perceived the ordinary structure of conversation to be the exchange of information and the balance of vulnerability that came with it. For a while, it felt as though my mind was bound by restraints—the urge to reassure, engage, or contribute rose constantly in the back of my throat like bile.

However, the more the man revealed to me about his past, passions, and philosophies, the further the urgency to speak retreated from my mind.

He told me that his friend stole his car, his features twisted in disbelief as he gestured wildly with his hands. I furrowed my brows, nodded along, and said nothing, as I had no similar misfortune to relate with.

He told me that he’s traveled across two different states in the past month, his brown eyes shining with thinly-veiled bitterness. Once again, I nodded along, attentive yet silent, as I had no refuge to offer him.

He told me that he lost two of his children to suicide, his head cradled in his hands as silent cries racked through his body. My nails bit into the skin of my palms as every reassurance dissolved on my tongue like expired candy.

There was a brief intermission during which he excused himself to use the restroom, and I was left alone to process the contents of the past hour. I remember stealing glances at different parts of the seating area, noting that the crowd of patrons had thinned out considerably since I’d first arrived. There were several instances during our conversation in which the man had a particularly strident reaction, inadvertently drawing the attention of the surrounding tables, and I found myself surprisingly unfazed by it.

It was fascinating to be on the other side of the encounter for once. It was eye-opening to be a participant in the sort of outburst that so many times I’d labeled to be evidence of a crazed man—a clear warning to steer clear of the person making loud noises where loud noises didn’t belong. Not once during my conversation with the man did I feel that I was in any sort of danger—if anything, the urge to comfort the man had only gotten stronger—and once the window of fascinated reflection passed, I was left with resentment.

I resented society for setting strict borders between myself and those who didn’t fit the mold any longer—for instilling in me that the man’s cries for help were signs of caution that I might’ve perceived as reason to avoid him. I resented myself for all the times I’d ignored someone in the same position as him—all the times I’d decided that someone like him was a lost cause because I had no hope of fixing them.

While the man was gone, I packed up my bag and collected my phone, though I left the rest of my belongings on the table. I didn’t want to give the impression that I was trying to get away from the man. It felt as though I could do nothing worse than to insinuate that I wanted to leave him.

When he returned, it was as though his energy had been renewed. Almost immediately, he launched into a spiel that in no way correlated to our previous conversation while I listened in silent rapture.

Having already divulged that his parents kicked him out of the house at ten years old, he said he believed that the reason his family wouldn’t accept him was because they couldn’t handle the abstract nature of his thoughts. At one point, as he peeled the wrapper of his bagel back and bit a small portion of it off, he hunched forward conspiratorially in his seat.

“I got such deep thoughts—what I’m ‘bouta tell you is gon’ blow yo’ mind,” he told me eagerly, raising his free hand to the side of his head before mimicking an explosion. I nodded encouragingly, wanting to hear everything he had to say.

The next half hour or so was filled with philosophical explanations and religious speculation. During his brief and infrequent pauses, he inquired about my knowledge of the Catholic faith for the sake of the discussion (I confirmed the bits and pieces that were familiar and encouraged him to continue, not having the heart to inform him that I was agnostic) and carried on without hesitation or judgement as he explained his concept of heaven, hell, and purgatory.

In all honesty, I don’t remember many details about what he told me. Rather, I gathered a general notion of which individuals he believed would be going to heaven, and who was going, as he phrased it, “straight down.” It brought me a lot of joy to know that his faith had brought him such peace and security when he was in such a dark place, even if mine hadn’t provided me the same.

It was in the midst of this discussion (or perhaps I’d been progressing towards the conclusion from the moment I sat down) that I realized I hadn’t offered the man any sort of advice or solution to his problems. The helpless feeling I’d felt when I first sat down with him had gradually receded until all that was left was a feeling of contentment.

The man’s voice no longer held the same morbid hopelessness he’d articulated earlier that evening. I don’t doubt that it was still there—his situation hadn’t changed, after all—but in that moment, listening to him share about his faith and the depth of his knowledge in it, all I could hear was passion. And where there was passion, I thought, there was hope.

Our conversation reached a natural lull right around the same time that the coffee shop closed its doors. The sky was painted with broad, hazy strokes of pink, and talons of frigid wind preceded the shadow of dusk that had begun to blanket the city. It seemed as though the adjoining restaurant was also in the process of closing down, although the entrance was still ajar—the bustle of busy employees spilling out of it and into the open air.

As the man packed up the remainder of his food, I felt a mixture of disappointment and relief at the realization that our time was coming to a close. I had formed an easy camaraderie with him throughout our conversation, laughing freely at his commentary about life experiences that were so vastly different from my own, and despite the fact that I hadn’t even learned his first name, I was saddened by the idea that I’d never hear from him again.

At the same time, though, the nagging reminder of the unfinished work I’d abandoned to talk with him had been prodding at the back of my mind for some time, and I knew I was expected home by seven o’clock for dinner.

When he was finished collecting his things, the man threw a fleeting glance over his shoulder.

“You think you could get me a cup of hot coffee?”

I pivoted slightly in my seat and glanced back towards the coffee shop before turning back around with furrowed brows and pursed lips.

“I’m pretty sure they close at six,” I told him apologetically, waking my phone screen to check the time. Sure enough, it was ten past six.

The man once again glanced over his shoulder, seeming to survey the restaurant that neighbored the coffee shop. A few beats later, he rose from his seat, gestured broadly towards the side entrance, and started off towards it. I followed suite.

I waited outside the door, hands clasped in front of me as the man spoke with the employees inside the restaurant. I observed my surroundings in close detail for the first time in nearly two hours, my eyes dancing over the soft string lights that hung from the tall metal gate separating the sidewalk from the dining area. The chest of drawers I was standing in front of had a small potted plant and a wooden chalkboard resting atop it. Don’t ruin it for everyone else—wear your mask was scribbled out on the board. A wry, bitter huff of laughter escaped me knowing that the man’s mask had been stolen earlier that day.

A minute or two passed before he re-emerged from the restaurant, wordlessly beckoning me to follow him in. The establishment, I soon realized, was more of a bar than a restaurant. The employees behind the counter were clearly getting ready to close for the night, if the numerous stacks of recently-washed glasses on the counter were anything to go by. Nonetheless, a waitress had placed a steaming cup of coffee on the opposite side of the counter, declining my offer to pay with a furtive shake of her head.

I stood by idly as the man stirred a plentiful helping of sugar into his cup, feeling slightly restless, like I was lingering in a space where I didn’t belong. When he was finished, he turned back to me, adjusting the drawstrings of his bag on his shoulders. The smile he gave me then was bittersweet, and although he couldn’t see it, I returned it in kind.

“I better get going,” I told him softly, my fingers fiddling with the cardboard covering of my own disposable cup. It was still full, though the contents of it had undoubtably gone cold. “I have to be home soon.”

I cringed internally at my poor choice of words, but the man paid them no mind.

“Of course,” He said with a nod, picking his coffee up from the counter. “Do you think— — do you have a number I could use to contact you?”

I shifted my weight and glanced down at my cup, trying to figure out how best to phrase my words. I was poorly versed in saying no to others, and although a small part of me felt a tug of obligation to provide this man with the companionship he was clearly in need of, I knew immediately what my answer had to be.

I didn’t want a friendship borne of obligation. I didn’t want to leave the man with a false sense of support when I wasn’t emotionally capable of providing it for him. I wanted to help him, but in the end, I had to acknowledge my limits.

“I’m sorry, I’m just not comfortable giving out my number.”

“I respect that,” he told me with a nod, sounding every bit sincere in his civility, and the line of tension in my shoulders instantly unraveled. A beat of silence passed between us, and only then did I truly feel the weight of my impending departure.

“Thank you,” I said, because no other words felt quite right. “I really enjoyed talking with you.”

The man smiled kindly, his head bobbing lightly as he nodded.

“Thank you, miss. God bless you.”

I was overcome by the urge to hug him. Instead, I nodded.

“Take care of yourself, okay?” I told him lightly as I stepped towards the door, the dull thud of my shoes against the floorboards sounding incredibly loud in the small room. Once again, the man nodded, his smile never falling from his lips.

“You too.”

I nodded, my lips tugging up at the corner even as my brows pinched together. Solemnly, I willed myself to exit the restaurant.

I’d done what I could, I told myself. I got him to eat, got him to laugh, and gave him a shoulder to cry on, even if only for one night.