I Wasn't Expecting It

It was a cold winter morning in New York City. We ventured out to get a snack and some hot chocolate at the Dunkin Donuts on East Houston street, a few blocks from her apartment.

We arrived and found other people had the same idea. Sitting at the grey and purple table was a bearded, homeless man with the air of a ruined mall Santa. His eyes met mine and I smiled at him briefly before she squeezed my hand, gently reminding me to figure out what I wanted. I looked up at the donuts, torn between a French cruller and a Boston creme. Someone yelled out: "Irish. Hey, Irish." I looked over my shoulder and saw the man getting up and coming towards me. "You got that red in your beard Irish, what's your name; my name's Jimmy Duffy."

We were next in line with a few people already behind us. I wanted to be polite and not dismiss him, but she was pulling me forward toward the counter. I reached into my pocket, handed her a ten dollar bill and told her get me a Boston creme. She narrowed her eyes at me and continued to the counter.

I shook Jimmy's hand and introduced myself. Something about him reminded me of my father. He told me I had a beautiful girlfriend, that I reminded him of his nephew. He switched course and said: "It's cold and I'm hungry. Can you help me out man? Anything. I'm just trying to get something warm." Again I reached into my pocket, knowing I had another bill in there, but unsure whether it was a one or a five. I'd made up my mind that even if it was a five I was fine parting with it. Sure, I said, and a wrinkled Lincoln was placed into his hand. Astonished, he looked at the bill and then up at me and said, "a five? Holy! I can't believe it." His eyes began to get shiny. She appeared at my side with our donuts and drinks. "You believe this guy," he asked her, "he gave me a five."

He was a bloated scarecrow of a man, stuffed full of faded newspaper and loss. He stood for a moment unsure of what to do. Then, overcome with gratitude, he pulled me in and hugged me. When he did, the string that held up his pants untied itself and came slipping down, revealing his filthy underwear and dirty legs. They were a reddish purple, as though they'd been out in the cold too long. So here I am, my girlfriend looking at me while I stand clasped against a pantless, homeless Jimmy Duffy in the middle of a Dunkin Donuts. He's weeping in my arms, calling me a sonofabitch and kissing my cheek, staggering in small steps like a drunken ballerina while his sweatpants made fabric handcuffs around his ankles. "I'm sorry," he said, bending down to try and pick them up, "I wasn't expecting it."

Neither was I.