nathanghooper
11-23-2011, 11:51 AM
An old lady driving an aged Buick muttered under her breath, her wrinkled face convulsed in disgust, wavering back and forth at Armin as he sped through the changing yellow light. It certainly meant nothing to him, the first of what was certain to be many in his day. As he sipped from his steaming latte, his morning ritual, he thought about his road to success, a wry grin cracking out of his otherwise emotionless face. The morning drive was something he now enjoyed, compliments of his latest splurge, a sparkling new Cadillac, the leathery chair he now occupied catering much better to his decaying spine, the years of constant work taking a toll on his body, his drive for excellence pushing out everything else in his life, as the depressed ring of skin on his fourth finger reminded him.
Coming into the business district, Armin disregarded the change in speed, the numbers on the sign being purely moot to him; he long since stopped caring about the strip of highway that had gone perpetually unpatrolled for years. He accelerated into the off ramp effortlessly, the engine responding to the depression of his leather dress shoes instantaneously, the car moving gracefully through the long helix. Gliding towards the intersection, he saw another yellow light. Driving through the narrow lane at speed to make the turn, he saw out of the corner of his eye a homeless man, his gruff and untrimmed beard obstructing the speeding car from his view, step out into the lane. The body now in the road did not register with Armin until the last minute, who, while sipping from his still steaming latte, was forced to slam the brake into the floor. As he watched in horror, his car skidded towards the man, frozen in his crouched position. Every muscle in Armin’s body tensed up, his hand crushing the tall white cup that held his drink. The steaming liquid spilled out of the mangled cup, and onto the pressed pleat of his black pinstripe dress pants. Armin writhed in pain as the coffee ran across his leg, and he stabbed the passenger window button on his door panel, the man coming into view beside him. The man’s eyes were wide with horror, his beard trembling.
“You stupid bastard”, Armin screamed, “What the hell were you thinking!” The man recoiled, terrified of the angry man in the suit driving the expensive car.
“I...I...I’m sorry...sir...” he stuttered, “I...I...thought I saw...saw some food...in that bag...I’m sorry.” The man pulled his tattered jacket around his trembling limbs, turning back towards his cardboard mat.
“Ignorant, clueless, stupid old man,” Armin muttered, as he drew up his window, again blocking himself off from the world. The light turned green, and he drove off into the heart of the business district. As he glanced down at his crumpled latte cup, he turned up his radio, trying to focus on his driving. In the back of his mind though, he could not forget the words of the man on the street corner. As he reached for his artisan bagel that he purchased with what was formerly his latte, he could not fathom what it meant to be truly hungry. Shaking his head in an effort to clear his conscience, he took his first bite of the steaming bagel.
Pulling into the driveway of his downtown office, he absentmindedly tossed the keys to the waiting valet, and walked through the glass doors to the atrium. He was greeted by his secretary at the door, who came every morning with a fresh latte and a notepad to take his order for lunch. Armin waved her off, not prepared to focus on any decisions. Arriving at his top floor office, he gazed through the panoramic glass window that occupied both outside walls of his corner office. In the distance, he observed the total breadth of the urban area, but this morning his attention was drawn towards the smoke coming from the Salvation Army soup kitchen, located very close to the corner where he encountered the man that morning, his words still ringing in his ears. Armin strode over to his sweeping oak desk, and picked up the phone.
Armin took a deep breath, and started. “Hello, is this the soup kitchen on West and 4th? I was wondering if I could come in...and volunteer for a couple of hours...”
Stepping under the sheet metal overhang covering the entryway of the soup kitchen on West and 4th Street, Armin examined the dilapidated frame of the door, paint peeling off the tattered, wooden frame, the long winters of Chicago wearing heavily. He paused, his gloved hand gripping the dented door handle, his mind flashing back to what had happened just that morning. How he had changed in such a short day; his pressed suit had now become faded jeans, a plaid fleece jacket, and winter boots, all picked up at the Salvation Army outlet one city block away from the kitchen.
A rat, crawling through crumpled cans and wrappers, brought Armin swiftly back to the present. He took a deep breath, and cracked open the door, peering inside. What awaited him inside the basement kitchen was unlike anything he had seen before. Tables of all different kinds crammed into every crevice of space, folding chairs and benches scattered in between them, bare light bulbs casting a harsh, amber glow over the whole scene.
Stepping over puddles of melted snow and garbage, Armin stepped down into the basement, gripping the rusted handrail bolted to the concrete wall. A few of the regulars looked up; rather remaining hunched over their Styrofoam bowls of soup, their cold and weathered hands trembling as they lifted the watery soup up to their chapped lips. One of the volunteers on the serving line made eye contact with Armin, the wrinkles around her eyes smoothing slightly at the thought of having an extra pair of hands behind the counter; on a snowy night such as this the soup kitchen overflowed with hungry people, to a point where it was usually more than the basement kitchen could handle.
Cautiously walking over to the stained aluminum counter, he caught the eye of another volunteer, and, measuring his words carefully, asked if he could help serve.
“Honestly, we’re managing behind the counter right now,” the lady replied, her sweaty hands continuing to ladle soup into the endless stacks of cups, and passing them to the reaching hands of the hungry. “If you really wanted to help tonight, the best thing you could do for these people would be to get in line.”
“Get in line? But I came here to help, not to have a bowl of soup. I don’t think you understand, I want to help serve these people, not eat a bowl of soup with them.”
“No, I don’t think you understand. These people come in here expecting a bowl of soup, and a place to sit and eat it in silence, and then they go back into the street. If you wanted to help, get in line, have some soup, and go talk to someone.”
“Talk to someone? But everyone in here is just interested in getting a meal and going back out into the street, not to talk to someone.”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear. Every one of these people in here will get soup eventually. What most of them won’t get is a conversation with someone. Every single person in this room needs someone to talk to, the only thing they aren’t getting is that someone. There’s nothing for you to do back here, go be that someone.”
The lady turned her attention back to the soup, quickening her pace as the line had now become longer. Armin turned back and looked uneasily towards the line of people, all peering over to the counter, confused as to why the line had slowed. Armin tried to smile, but he stood motionless, terrified at the thought of trying to engage one of these people in a conversation. Scanning the crowd of people, looking for anyone who looked like they would be the slightest bit receptive to an attempt at small talk, a short stocky man, who, with a jacket a bit nicer than the rest, sitting in the corner, caught Armin’s eye.
Armin wove his way through the crowd of people, apologizing as he bumped into elbows and legs, not bothering to get in line for a bowl of the watery soup. He caught the eye of the man in the corner, who now had out a violin, certainly not a typical musical talent among the homeless Armin thought to himself.
“I’ve never seen anyone in a place like this playing a violin” Armin said to the man, whose face cracked a grin, a twinkle in his eye.
“It doesn’t look like you have much experience in a place like this, friend” said the man.
“Well, in that you would be right. I haven’t spent much time in places like this before.”
“I can tell. Your coat and shoes aren’t very worn. Granted, your leather gloves sort of give you away, but it was a nice effort anyways”
“You have quite an eye for detail. My name is Armin, and I work at Nicholson, Hewitt, and West downtown. I decided it was time for some pro bono work if you will.”
“Well, so far, you’re doing infinitely more than anyone else from that part of town is doing. I guess I understand though, I used to be in the same boat, never really cared about those less fortunate.”
“Wait, you were? How did you go from that to playing a violin in a soup kitchen”
“Well, the music business is always a gamble. I took one, gave up a job and tried to make it playing this same violin for an orchestra. The one playing in the music hall downtown in a week actually. As you can see, it didn’t work out very well, and I fell hard. Couldn’t get a job anywhere else, and had to keep downsizing until eventually I ended up here. I sort of live here now. No rent, a bit of heat, a hot meal, it’s better than living on the streets. No showers, but it’s something I’ve learned to live with”
Armin stood motionless, looking at this man who had all of the sudden opened up to him, contemplating how he could even begin to reply to such a man. A thought came to his mind, and Armin chose to act upon it before he changed his mind.
“Forgive me if I’m being too forward, but, would you like to come home with me today, and have a nice hot shower and a better meal? I’ve got nobody else around the house, I wouldn’t mind the company. That is, if you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.”
“Well, I hate to stop playing in the middle of my act, I’d hate to deny my fans of their music for the night” he said, gesturing with his bow to empty tables surrounding him, a smile escaping from the corners of his mouth. “Sure, that would be very nice. I’m Alexander by the way”
Sinking down into the passenger seat of Armin’s car, Alexander found it hard to believe what was happening to him. Just this morning he had woken up under the very same overpass on which he was now speeding over top of, the change so drastic that it was almost surreal. He clutched his worn black violin case between his legs, his only possession that he bothered to keep with him.
“When we get back to my place, I’ll get some dinner going for you while you clean up. I apologize, I won’t be able to stay up and talk with you much tonight, my time in the kitchen this afternoon has resulted in a dozen phone messages, I can only imagine how many notices are sitting on my desk. I’ll be gone to work early tomorrow morning as well, but please make yourself comfortable around the house, and take the spare car in the garage if you need to go anywhere, I’ll leave some money for you to pick up some dinner?” Alexander shook his head yes, still quite in a daze from all that had happened to him today.
The next morning, true to his word, Armin was gone, and there was fifty dollars on the table for dinner. Alexander pocketed the money, and decided to make himself breakfast, eventually going into the garage to get the spare car, after discovering that Armin had only takeout leftovers in his fridge. Driving into the town, he found the first Starbucks he could find and parked there, enjoying a leisurely breakfast on Armin’s tab. He then walked over to the grocery store, electing to make dinner rather than order more takeout food, cooking being one of the many skills Alexander possessed that he was unable to use very often.
When Armin arrived home from work that evening, he uncharacteristically decided to park his car in the garage, the weatherman calling for snow that night. Getting out of his car, a glint of shining metal caught his eye. Looking over towards the spare car, he noticed that there was a large dent in the front bumper of the car, the chrome grill bent up and acting as the mirror that reflected the light into Armin’s eyes. Dropping his briefcase and overcoat, Armin stormed into the house.
“Alexander, what the hell are you thinking” said Armin, slamming his hand onto the dining room counter.
“Uh…what…you don’t like stir fry?” Alexander stuttered, his eyes no longer twinkling, but full of fear.
“No, Alexander, not the stir fry. My damn car!”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“Did your eyes that are so good with detail fail to notice the dent in the front of my car?”
“Oh my God, Armin, I didn’t notice I swear. It wasn’t me…I…It must have happened while I was in getting groceries”
“Damn it Alex, I put you, a random stranger, up in my house out of sheer generosity, and you repay me with a thousand dollar repair? You of all people should know the value of money. Get out of my house, you’ve overstayed your visit, by about a thousand dollars.”
Alex turned and strode towards the front door of the house, and turned the door handle, but before opening it turned his head back towards Armin, still fuming at the kitchen counter.
“Yes Armin, I do know the value of money. But something I know and clearly you do not, is what generosity is. Putting someone up in your house while you go to work and slave away, that’s not generosity. Nice of you, but not generosity. The people who give up hours of their day and serve people like me soup, and don’t have nice houses of their own, those are generous people. Try standing on the opposite side of the counter next time.”
Stepping under the sheet metal overhang covering the entryway of the soup kitchen on West and 4th Street, Armin examined the dilapidated frame of the door, paint peeling off the tattered, wooden frame, the long winters of Chicago wearing heavily. He paused, his gloved hand gripping the dented door handle, his mind flashing back to what had happened just that morning. How he had changed in such a short day; his pressed suit had now become faded jeans, a plaid fleece jacket, and winter boots, all picked up at the Salvation Army outlet one city block away from the kitchen.
A rat, crawling through crumpled cans and wrappers, brought Armin swiftly back to the present. He took a deep breath, and cracked open the door, peering inside. What awaited him inside the basement kitchen was unlike anything he had seen before. Tables of all different kinds crammed into every crevice of space, folding chairs and benches scattered in between them, bare light bulbs casting a harsh, amber glow over the whole scene.
Stepping over puddles of melted snow and garbage, Armin stepped down into the basement, gripping the rusted handrail bolted to the concrete wall. A few of the regulars looked up; rather remaining hunched over their Styrofoam bowls of soup, their cold and weathered hands trembling as they lifted the watery soup up to their chapped lips. One of the volunteers on the serving line made eye contact with Armin, the wrinkles around her eyes smoothing slightly at the thought of having an extra pair of hands behind the counter; on a snowy night such as this the soup kitchen overflowed with hungry people, to a point where it was usually more than the basement kitchen could handle.
Cautiously walking over to the stained aluminum counter, he caught the eye of another volunteer, and, measuring his words carefully, asked if he could help serve.
“Honestly, we’re managing behind the counter right now,” the lady replied, her sweaty hands continuing to ladle soup into the endless stacks of cups, and passing them to the reaching hands of the hungry. “If you really wanted to help tonight, the best thing you could do for these people would be to get in line.”
“Get in line? But I came here to help, not to have a bowl of soup. I don’t think you understand, I want to help serve these people, not eat a bowl of soup with them.”
“No, I don’t think you understand. These people come in here expecting a bowl of soup, and a place to sit and eat it in silence, and then they go back into the street. If you wanted to help, get in line, have some soup, and go talk to someone.”
“Talk to someone? But everyone in here is just interested in getting a meal and going back out into the street, not to talk to someone.”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear. Every one of these people in here will get soup eventually. What most of them won’t get is a conversation with someone. Every single person in this room needs someone to talk to, the only thing they aren’t getting is that someone. There’s nothing for you to do back here, go be that someone.”
The lady turned her attention back to the soup, quickening her pace as the line had now become longer. Armin turned back and looked uneasily towards the line of people, all peering over to the counter, confused as to why the line had slowed. Armin tried to smile, but he stood motionless, terrified at the thought of trying to engage one of these people in a conversation. Scanning the crowd of people, looking for anyone who looked like they would be the slightest bit receptive to an attempt at small talk, a short stocky man, who, with a jacket a bit nicer than the rest, sitting in the corner, caught Armin’s eye.
Armin wove his way through the crowd of people, apologizing as he bumped into elbows and legs, not bothering to get in line for a bowl of the watery soup. He caught the eye of the man in the corner, who now had out a violin, certainly not a typical musical talent among the homeless Armin thought to himself.
“I’ve never seen anyone in a place like this playing a violin” Armin said to the man, whose face cracked a grin, a twinkle in his eye.
“It doesn’t look like you have much experience in a place like this, friend” said the man.
“Well, in that you would be right. I haven’t spent much time in places like this before.”
“I can tell. Your coat and shoes aren’t very worn. Granted, your leather gloves sort of give you away, but it was a nice effort anyways”
“You have quite an eye for detail. My name is Armin, and I work at Nicholson, Hewitt, and West downtown. I decided it was time for some pro bono work if you will.”
“Well, so far, you’re doing infinitely more than anyone else from that part of town is doing. I guess I understand though, I used to be in the same boat, never really cared about those less fortunate.”
“Wait, you were? How did you go from that to playing a violin in a soup kitchen”
“Well, the music business is always a gamble. I took one, gave up a job and tried to make it playing this same violin for an orchestra. The one playing in the music hall downtown in a week actually. As you can see, it didn’t work out very well, and I fell hard. Couldn’t get a job anywhere else, and had to keep downsizing until eventually I ended up here. I sort of live here now. No rent, a bit of heat, a hot meal, it’s better than living on the streets. No showers, but it’s something I’ve learned to live with”
Armin stood motionless, looking at this man who had all of the sudden opened up to him, contemplating how he could even begin to reply to such a man. A thought came to his mind, and Armin chose to act upon it before he changed his mind.
“Forgive me if I’m being too forward, but, would you like to come home with me today, and have a nice hot shower and a better meal? I’ve got nobody else around the house, I wouldn’t mind the company. That is, if you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.”
“Well, I hate to stop playing in the middle of my act, I’d hate to deny my fans of their music for the night” he said, gesturing with his bow to empty tables surrounding him, a smile escaping from the corners of his mouth. “Sure, that would be very nice. I’m Alexander by the way”
Sinking down into the passenger seat of Armin’s car, Alexander found it hard to believe what was happening to him. Just this morning he had woken up under the very same overpass on which he was now speeding over top of, the change so drastic that it was almost surreal. He clutched his worn black violin case between his legs, his only possession that he bothered to keep with him.
“When we get back to my place, I’ll get some dinner going for you while you clean up. I apologize, I won’t be able to stay up and talk with you much tonight, my time in the kitchen this afternoon has resulted in a dozen phone messages, I can only imagine how many notices are sitting on my desk. I’ll be gone to work early tomorrow morning as well, but please make yourself comfortable around the house, and take the spare car in the garage if you need to go anywhere, I’ll leave some money for you to pick up some dinner?” Alexander shook his head yes, still quite in a daze from all that had happened to him today.
The next morning, true to his word, Armin was gone, and there was fifty dollars on the table for dinner. Alexander pocketed the money, and decided to make himself breakfast, eventually going into the garage to get the spare car, after discovering that Armin had only takeout leftovers in his fridge. Driving into the town, he found the first Starbucks he could find and parked there, enjoying a leisurely breakfast on Armin’s tab. He then walked over to the grocery store, electing to make dinner rather than order more takeout food, cooking being one of the many skills Alexander possessed that he was unable to use very often.
When Armin arrived home from work that evening, he uncharacteristically decided to park his car in the garage, the weatherman calling for snow that night. Getting out of his car, a glint of shining metal caught his eye. Looking over towards the spare car, he noticed that there was a large dent in the front bumper of the car, the chrome grill bent up and acting as the mirror that reflected the light into Armin’s eyes. Dropping his briefcase and overcoat, Armin stormed into the house.
“Alexander, what the hell are you thinking” said Armin, slamming his hand onto the dining room counter.
“Uh…what…you don’t like stir fry?” Alexander stuttered, his eyes no longer twinkling, but full of fear.
“No, Alexander, not the stir fry. My damn car!”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“Did your eyes that are so good with detail fail to notice the dent in the front of my car?”
“Oh my God, Armin, I didn’t notice I swear. It wasn’t me…I…It must have happened while I was in getting groceries”
“Damn it Alex, I put you, a random stranger, up in my house out of sheer generosity, and you repay me with a thousand dollar repair? You of all people should know the value of money. Get out of my house, you’ve overstayed your visit, by about a thousand dollars.”
Alex turned and strode towards the front door of the house, and turned the door handle, but before opening it turned his head back towards Armin, still fuming at the kitchen counter.
“Yes Armin, I do know the value of money. But something I know and clearly you do not, is what generosity is. Putting someone up in your house while you go to work and slave away, that’s not generosity. Nice of you, but not generosity. The people who give up hours of their day and serve people like me soup, and don’t have nice houses of their own, those are generous people. Try standing on the opposite side of the counter next time.”
Coming into the business district, Armin disregarded the change in speed, the numbers on the sign being purely moot to him; he long since stopped caring about the strip of highway that had gone perpetually unpatrolled for years. He accelerated into the off ramp effortlessly, the engine responding to the depression of his leather dress shoes instantaneously, the car moving gracefully through the long helix. Gliding towards the intersection, he saw another yellow light. Driving through the narrow lane at speed to make the turn, he saw out of the corner of his eye a homeless man, his gruff and untrimmed beard obstructing the speeding car from his view, step out into the lane. The body now in the road did not register with Armin until the last minute, who, while sipping from his still steaming latte, was forced to slam the brake into the floor. As he watched in horror, his car skidded towards the man, frozen in his crouched position. Every muscle in Armin’s body tensed up, his hand crushing the tall white cup that held his drink. The steaming liquid spilled out of the mangled cup, and onto the pressed pleat of his black pinstripe dress pants. Armin writhed in pain as the coffee ran across his leg, and he stabbed the passenger window button on his door panel, the man coming into view beside him. The man’s eyes were wide with horror, his beard trembling.
“You stupid bastard”, Armin screamed, “What the hell were you thinking!” The man recoiled, terrified of the angry man in the suit driving the expensive car.
“I...I...I’m sorry...sir...” he stuttered, “I...I...thought I saw...saw some food...in that bag...I’m sorry.” The man pulled his tattered jacket around his trembling limbs, turning back towards his cardboard mat.
“Ignorant, clueless, stupid old man,” Armin muttered, as he drew up his window, again blocking himself off from the world. The light turned green, and he drove off into the heart of the business district. As he glanced down at his crumpled latte cup, he turned up his radio, trying to focus on his driving. In the back of his mind though, he could not forget the words of the man on the street corner. As he reached for his artisan bagel that he purchased with what was formerly his latte, he could not fathom what it meant to be truly hungry. Shaking his head in an effort to clear his conscience, he took his first bite of the steaming bagel.
Pulling into the driveway of his downtown office, he absentmindedly tossed the keys to the waiting valet, and walked through the glass doors to the atrium. He was greeted by his secretary at the door, who came every morning with a fresh latte and a notepad to take his order for lunch. Armin waved her off, not prepared to focus on any decisions. Arriving at his top floor office, he gazed through the panoramic glass window that occupied both outside walls of his corner office. In the distance, he observed the total breadth of the urban area, but this morning his attention was drawn towards the smoke coming from the Salvation Army soup kitchen, located very close to the corner where he encountered the man that morning, his words still ringing in his ears. Armin strode over to his sweeping oak desk, and picked up the phone.
Armin took a deep breath, and started. “Hello, is this the soup kitchen on West and 4th? I was wondering if I could come in...and volunteer for a couple of hours...”
Stepping under the sheet metal overhang covering the entryway of the soup kitchen on West and 4th Street, Armin examined the dilapidated frame of the door, paint peeling off the tattered, wooden frame, the long winters of Chicago wearing heavily. He paused, his gloved hand gripping the dented door handle, his mind flashing back to what had happened just that morning. How he had changed in such a short day; his pressed suit had now become faded jeans, a plaid fleece jacket, and winter boots, all picked up at the Salvation Army outlet one city block away from the kitchen.
A rat, crawling through crumpled cans and wrappers, brought Armin swiftly back to the present. He took a deep breath, and cracked open the door, peering inside. What awaited him inside the basement kitchen was unlike anything he had seen before. Tables of all different kinds crammed into every crevice of space, folding chairs and benches scattered in between them, bare light bulbs casting a harsh, amber glow over the whole scene.
Stepping over puddles of melted snow and garbage, Armin stepped down into the basement, gripping the rusted handrail bolted to the concrete wall. A few of the regulars looked up; rather remaining hunched over their Styrofoam bowls of soup, their cold and weathered hands trembling as they lifted the watery soup up to their chapped lips. One of the volunteers on the serving line made eye contact with Armin, the wrinkles around her eyes smoothing slightly at the thought of having an extra pair of hands behind the counter; on a snowy night such as this the soup kitchen overflowed with hungry people, to a point where it was usually more than the basement kitchen could handle.
Cautiously walking over to the stained aluminum counter, he caught the eye of another volunteer, and, measuring his words carefully, asked if he could help serve.
“Honestly, we’re managing behind the counter right now,” the lady replied, her sweaty hands continuing to ladle soup into the endless stacks of cups, and passing them to the reaching hands of the hungry. “If you really wanted to help tonight, the best thing you could do for these people would be to get in line.”
“Get in line? But I came here to help, not to have a bowl of soup. I don’t think you understand, I want to help serve these people, not eat a bowl of soup with them.”
“No, I don’t think you understand. These people come in here expecting a bowl of soup, and a place to sit and eat it in silence, and then they go back into the street. If you wanted to help, get in line, have some soup, and go talk to someone.”
“Talk to someone? But everyone in here is just interested in getting a meal and going back out into the street, not to talk to someone.”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear. Every one of these people in here will get soup eventually. What most of them won’t get is a conversation with someone. Every single person in this room needs someone to talk to, the only thing they aren’t getting is that someone. There’s nothing for you to do back here, go be that someone.”
The lady turned her attention back to the soup, quickening her pace as the line had now become longer. Armin turned back and looked uneasily towards the line of people, all peering over to the counter, confused as to why the line had slowed. Armin tried to smile, but he stood motionless, terrified at the thought of trying to engage one of these people in a conversation. Scanning the crowd of people, looking for anyone who looked like they would be the slightest bit receptive to an attempt at small talk, a short stocky man, who, with a jacket a bit nicer than the rest, sitting in the corner, caught Armin’s eye.
Armin wove his way through the crowd of people, apologizing as he bumped into elbows and legs, not bothering to get in line for a bowl of the watery soup. He caught the eye of the man in the corner, who now had out a violin, certainly not a typical musical talent among the homeless Armin thought to himself.
“I’ve never seen anyone in a place like this playing a violin” Armin said to the man, whose face cracked a grin, a twinkle in his eye.
“It doesn’t look like you have much experience in a place like this, friend” said the man.
“Well, in that you would be right. I haven’t spent much time in places like this before.”
“I can tell. Your coat and shoes aren’t very worn. Granted, your leather gloves sort of give you away, but it was a nice effort anyways”
“You have quite an eye for detail. My name is Armin, and I work at Nicholson, Hewitt, and West downtown. I decided it was time for some pro bono work if you will.”
“Well, so far, you’re doing infinitely more than anyone else from that part of town is doing. I guess I understand though, I used to be in the same boat, never really cared about those less fortunate.”
“Wait, you were? How did you go from that to playing a violin in a soup kitchen”
“Well, the music business is always a gamble. I took one, gave up a job and tried to make it playing this same violin for an orchestra. The one playing in the music hall downtown in a week actually. As you can see, it didn’t work out very well, and I fell hard. Couldn’t get a job anywhere else, and had to keep downsizing until eventually I ended up here. I sort of live here now. No rent, a bit of heat, a hot meal, it’s better than living on the streets. No showers, but it’s something I’ve learned to live with”
Armin stood motionless, looking at this man who had all of the sudden opened up to him, contemplating how he could even begin to reply to such a man. A thought came to his mind, and Armin chose to act upon it before he changed his mind.
“Forgive me if I’m being too forward, but, would you like to come home with me today, and have a nice hot shower and a better meal? I’ve got nobody else around the house, I wouldn’t mind the company. That is, if you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.”
“Well, I hate to stop playing in the middle of my act, I’d hate to deny my fans of their music for the night” he said, gesturing with his bow to empty tables surrounding him, a smile escaping from the corners of his mouth. “Sure, that would be very nice. I’m Alexander by the way”
Sinking down into the passenger seat of Armin’s car, Alexander found it hard to believe what was happening to him. Just this morning he had woken up under the very same overpass on which he was now speeding over top of, the change so drastic that it was almost surreal. He clutched his worn black violin case between his legs, his only possession that he bothered to keep with him.
“When we get back to my place, I’ll get some dinner going for you while you clean up. I apologize, I won’t be able to stay up and talk with you much tonight, my time in the kitchen this afternoon has resulted in a dozen phone messages, I can only imagine how many notices are sitting on my desk. I’ll be gone to work early tomorrow morning as well, but please make yourself comfortable around the house, and take the spare car in the garage if you need to go anywhere, I’ll leave some money for you to pick up some dinner?” Alexander shook his head yes, still quite in a daze from all that had happened to him today.
The next morning, true to his word, Armin was gone, and there was fifty dollars on the table for dinner. Alexander pocketed the money, and decided to make himself breakfast, eventually going into the garage to get the spare car, after discovering that Armin had only takeout leftovers in his fridge. Driving into the town, he found the first Starbucks he could find and parked there, enjoying a leisurely breakfast on Armin’s tab. He then walked over to the grocery store, electing to make dinner rather than order more takeout food, cooking being one of the many skills Alexander possessed that he was unable to use very often.
When Armin arrived home from work that evening, he uncharacteristically decided to park his car in the garage, the weatherman calling for snow that night. Getting out of his car, a glint of shining metal caught his eye. Looking over towards the spare car, he noticed that there was a large dent in the front bumper of the car, the chrome grill bent up and acting as the mirror that reflected the light into Armin’s eyes. Dropping his briefcase and overcoat, Armin stormed into the house.
“Alexander, what the hell are you thinking” said Armin, slamming his hand onto the dining room counter.
“Uh…what…you don’t like stir fry?” Alexander stuttered, his eyes no longer twinkling, but full of fear.
“No, Alexander, not the stir fry. My damn car!”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“Did your eyes that are so good with detail fail to notice the dent in the front of my car?”
“Oh my God, Armin, I didn’t notice I swear. It wasn’t me…I…It must have happened while I was in getting groceries”
“Damn it Alex, I put you, a random stranger, up in my house out of sheer generosity, and you repay me with a thousand dollar repair? You of all people should know the value of money. Get out of my house, you’ve overstayed your visit, by about a thousand dollars.”
Alex turned and strode towards the front door of the house, and turned the door handle, but before opening it turned his head back towards Armin, still fuming at the kitchen counter.
“Yes Armin, I do know the value of money. But something I know and clearly you do not, is what generosity is. Putting someone up in your house while you go to work and slave away, that’s not generosity. Nice of you, but not generosity. The people who give up hours of their day and serve people like me soup, and don’t have nice houses of their own, those are generous people. Try standing on the opposite side of the counter next time.”
Stepping under the sheet metal overhang covering the entryway of the soup kitchen on West and 4th Street, Armin examined the dilapidated frame of the door, paint peeling off the tattered, wooden frame, the long winters of Chicago wearing heavily. He paused, his gloved hand gripping the dented door handle, his mind flashing back to what had happened just that morning. How he had changed in such a short day; his pressed suit had now become faded jeans, a plaid fleece jacket, and winter boots, all picked up at the Salvation Army outlet one city block away from the kitchen.
A rat, crawling through crumpled cans and wrappers, brought Armin swiftly back to the present. He took a deep breath, and cracked open the door, peering inside. What awaited him inside the basement kitchen was unlike anything he had seen before. Tables of all different kinds crammed into every crevice of space, folding chairs and benches scattered in between them, bare light bulbs casting a harsh, amber glow over the whole scene.
Stepping over puddles of melted snow and garbage, Armin stepped down into the basement, gripping the rusted handrail bolted to the concrete wall. A few of the regulars looked up; rather remaining hunched over their Styrofoam bowls of soup, their cold and weathered hands trembling as they lifted the watery soup up to their chapped lips. One of the volunteers on the serving line made eye contact with Armin, the wrinkles around her eyes smoothing slightly at the thought of having an extra pair of hands behind the counter; on a snowy night such as this the soup kitchen overflowed with hungry people, to a point where it was usually more than the basement kitchen could handle.
Cautiously walking over to the stained aluminum counter, he caught the eye of another volunteer, and, measuring his words carefully, asked if he could help serve.
“Honestly, we’re managing behind the counter right now,” the lady replied, her sweaty hands continuing to ladle soup into the endless stacks of cups, and passing them to the reaching hands of the hungry. “If you really wanted to help tonight, the best thing you could do for these people would be to get in line.”
“Get in line? But I came here to help, not to have a bowl of soup. I don’t think you understand, I want to help serve these people, not eat a bowl of soup with them.”
“No, I don’t think you understand. These people come in here expecting a bowl of soup, and a place to sit and eat it in silence, and then they go back into the street. If you wanted to help, get in line, have some soup, and go talk to someone.”
“Talk to someone? But everyone in here is just interested in getting a meal and going back out into the street, not to talk to someone.”
“Maybe I’m not making myself clear. Every one of these people in here will get soup eventually. What most of them won’t get is a conversation with someone. Every single person in this room needs someone to talk to, the only thing they aren’t getting is that someone. There’s nothing for you to do back here, go be that someone.”
The lady turned her attention back to the soup, quickening her pace as the line had now become longer. Armin turned back and looked uneasily towards the line of people, all peering over to the counter, confused as to why the line had slowed. Armin tried to smile, but he stood motionless, terrified at the thought of trying to engage one of these people in a conversation. Scanning the crowd of people, looking for anyone who looked like they would be the slightest bit receptive to an attempt at small talk, a short stocky man, who, with a jacket a bit nicer than the rest, sitting in the corner, caught Armin’s eye.
Armin wove his way through the crowd of people, apologizing as he bumped into elbows and legs, not bothering to get in line for a bowl of the watery soup. He caught the eye of the man in the corner, who now had out a violin, certainly not a typical musical talent among the homeless Armin thought to himself.
“I’ve never seen anyone in a place like this playing a violin” Armin said to the man, whose face cracked a grin, a twinkle in his eye.
“It doesn’t look like you have much experience in a place like this, friend” said the man.
“Well, in that you would be right. I haven’t spent much time in places like this before.”
“I can tell. Your coat and shoes aren’t very worn. Granted, your leather gloves sort of give you away, but it was a nice effort anyways”
“You have quite an eye for detail. My name is Armin, and I work at Nicholson, Hewitt, and West downtown. I decided it was time for some pro bono work if you will.”
“Well, so far, you’re doing infinitely more than anyone else from that part of town is doing. I guess I understand though, I used to be in the same boat, never really cared about those less fortunate.”
“Wait, you were? How did you go from that to playing a violin in a soup kitchen”
“Well, the music business is always a gamble. I took one, gave up a job and tried to make it playing this same violin for an orchestra. The one playing in the music hall downtown in a week actually. As you can see, it didn’t work out very well, and I fell hard. Couldn’t get a job anywhere else, and had to keep downsizing until eventually I ended up here. I sort of live here now. No rent, a bit of heat, a hot meal, it’s better than living on the streets. No showers, but it’s something I’ve learned to live with”
Armin stood motionless, looking at this man who had all of the sudden opened up to him, contemplating how he could even begin to reply to such a man. A thought came to his mind, and Armin chose to act upon it before he changed his mind.
“Forgive me if I’m being too forward, but, would you like to come home with me today, and have a nice hot shower and a better meal? I’ve got nobody else around the house, I wouldn’t mind the company. That is, if you wouldn’t feel uncomfortable.”
“Well, I hate to stop playing in the middle of my act, I’d hate to deny my fans of their music for the night” he said, gesturing with his bow to empty tables surrounding him, a smile escaping from the corners of his mouth. “Sure, that would be very nice. I’m Alexander by the way”
Sinking down into the passenger seat of Armin’s car, Alexander found it hard to believe what was happening to him. Just this morning he had woken up under the very same overpass on which he was now speeding over top of, the change so drastic that it was almost surreal. He clutched his worn black violin case between his legs, his only possession that he bothered to keep with him.
“When we get back to my place, I’ll get some dinner going for you while you clean up. I apologize, I won’t be able to stay up and talk with you much tonight, my time in the kitchen this afternoon has resulted in a dozen phone messages, I can only imagine how many notices are sitting on my desk. I’ll be gone to work early tomorrow morning as well, but please make yourself comfortable around the house, and take the spare car in the garage if you need to go anywhere, I’ll leave some money for you to pick up some dinner?” Alexander shook his head yes, still quite in a daze from all that had happened to him today.
The next morning, true to his word, Armin was gone, and there was fifty dollars on the table for dinner. Alexander pocketed the money, and decided to make himself breakfast, eventually going into the garage to get the spare car, after discovering that Armin had only takeout leftovers in his fridge. Driving into the town, he found the first Starbucks he could find and parked there, enjoying a leisurely breakfast on Armin’s tab. He then walked over to the grocery store, electing to make dinner rather than order more takeout food, cooking being one of the many skills Alexander possessed that he was unable to use very often.
When Armin arrived home from work that evening, he uncharacteristically decided to park his car in the garage, the weatherman calling for snow that night. Getting out of his car, a glint of shining metal caught his eye. Looking over towards the spare car, he noticed that there was a large dent in the front bumper of the car, the chrome grill bent up and acting as the mirror that reflected the light into Armin’s eyes. Dropping his briefcase and overcoat, Armin stormed into the house.
“Alexander, what the hell are you thinking” said Armin, slamming his hand onto the dining room counter.
“Uh…what…you don’t like stir fry?” Alexander stuttered, his eyes no longer twinkling, but full of fear.
“No, Alexander, not the stir fry. My damn car!”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“Did your eyes that are so good with detail fail to notice the dent in the front of my car?”
“Oh my God, Armin, I didn’t notice I swear. It wasn’t me…I…It must have happened while I was in getting groceries”
“Damn it Alex, I put you, a random stranger, up in my house out of sheer generosity, and you repay me with a thousand dollar repair? You of all people should know the value of money. Get out of my house, you’ve overstayed your visit, by about a thousand dollars.”
Alex turned and strode towards the front door of the house, and turned the door handle, but before opening it turned his head back towards Armin, still fuming at the kitchen counter.
“Yes Armin, I do know the value of money. But something I know and clearly you do not, is what generosity is. Putting someone up in your house while you go to work and slave away, that’s not generosity. Nice of you, but not generosity. The people who give up hours of their day and serve people like me soup, and don’t have nice houses of their own, those are generous people. Try standing on the opposite side of the counter next time.”