On the Doorstep

We got a gift on our doorstep Tuesday.

An open box filled with bread, crackers, half a carton of muffins and canned goods rested on the doorstep like an abandoned baby. It had no note, no directions like "eat me" or "give me away." Some of the muffins were missing, so I assumed someone had gotten into them already. I did not know if my sister Lanecia or other roommate Amanda had ordered Ritz crackers and such or if the mailman had decided to leave more than just the bills for some reason.

At the time, I didn't know it was a gift.

I called Lanecia, and she was clueless. We asked Amanda when she got home. She thought that maybe someone had made a Second Harvest delivery to the wrong house. So we wondered how to get the food to the right family. Or at least how to get it out of our house--it could have been a blueberry muffin bomb, after all.

So when Lanecia ran into our friend Steve, she was thrilled to reveal the box's secret. Steve had carried the heavy box of food all the way to our home. The box came to him from a Second Harvest drop-off, but it was way too heavy for him to keep carrying. So he thought if he could just get to our house, then he could give us the food. Since we weren't home, he left the box there. Since he carried no pen or paper, he left it there with no note. After grabbing a few things he could carry (and clearly after stuffing his pockets with a few muffins), he gifted the rest of the food to us.

Lanecia quickly told him that he could come over anytime to get his food; we didn't mind storing it for him. Steve said, "No! That's good food in that box. It's yours. You keep it."

I've been fascinated to see how my friends who live on the streets take care of one another. If one person gets food, they usually share it with their friends. We are happy to be Steve's friends.

It makes me smile.

A Highlight of the Past Few Weeks

I've been busy.

I shall not complain. Any freelancer who complains about being busy should be shaken, eh? So I shall not complain.

In the midst of my busy-ness, I met a man named Steve with a delightful nicotine smile. He reads the newspaper--primarily the City Paper--religiously so we discuss current events and politics mostly. He is 53 and was once in the military. Now he sleeps at the Shell station most nights and sometimes in the P.O. when it's cold and when they don't kick him out of the building.

An addict of morphine and alcohol, Steve was dry for four months straight since his addiction developed years ago. He is not dry, clean or sober anymore, though. Once he cleaned up, he got a job at a veteran's hospital where he had access to all of the morphine he could want. Once he had all the morphine he could want, he got high, lost his job and landed under the starry ceiling again.

Steve and I had lunch for about two hours a few weeks ago and have run into each other every now and then since. He likes that I'm a writer and gives me career advice. "We can do great things with your writing!" he says.

Maybe we will . . .