Having Lunch with the Homeless at Panera Bread (A true story about my afternoon)

He sat across from me: his attention torn between the cinnamon roll and my eyes. For me, it was no contest: the food was uninteresting. Probably precooked. My soup was too hot to even touch-- and nothing could be more intriguing than the man in front of me. It might have been the greasy hair that was half dread-locked and  half left to arrange itself, or the unknown black goop that dripped like paint underneath his left eye---- but he was something different.

It's not every day that you see a homeless man begging in the middle of a Panera Bread. But maybe it is normal in New York. I'm not sure, nor do I want to be.

I remember specifically as I stumbled into the store--out of the cold New York Streets to see him, kindly searching in line: his hand stretched out holding mere pennies--- asking if someone would help him buy a cinnamon bun.

My nose crinkled from a combination of disgust as people rudely told him to leave, and from a sneeze coming on from my inevitable cold. I walked to the end of the line and outstretched my hands and lightly tapped his shoulder.

He felt cold. Too cold to the touch, as he turned to me...His eyes were blue: almost crystal. The rest of him was mucky and dirty. He wore New York like a cape---the smell of the subway stuck on his thin black and brown jacket permanently.

My parents have always told me to be weary of people, especially the homeless. But I could see that this man wouldn't do me any harm: His cheeks reminded me of an old Santa Claus picture from an "ancient" coca-cola ad. The man towered over me in height, but I did not feel small. The way he looked at me was a look that I rarely get from most people. His eyes were wide like a child begging, and open as if ever little new detail was something new to wonder at. A discovery.

I told him quietly and politely that I would be glad to buy him a cinnamon roll. He stood there, observing me as I did so as well to him. I could read him like a book, and his pages were fascinating. They were empty with coffee stains around them: so honest and blank.  As I reached the front of the line and paid for both my food (a small french onion soup) and his (a large hot cinnamon roll)--- he gave me a creased and crinkled, yet beautifully genuine smirk of happiness. I nodded my head to him as I was given my food, and I handed him his cinnamon bun.

We were both close to the door and as each new customer came in we both could feel the cool breeze brush up against our backs. His eyes closed for a moment---as the cold went out of its way to try and tease him in the cruelest of ways.  I pictured the nights he must spend out there---with nothing but that cruel cold to be his blanket----

I invited him to lunch.

The table I had mentally picked out for myself was not too far away, and there was an extra seat. Panera was warm, and so was his honest smile: so I figured it would be safe.

I sat down first, as if this was a date and we were following the unspoken protocol of society in the romantic form. He sat across from me--- as we both placed and unwrapped our food in front of ourselves--but neither of as ate.

He stared at me and I stared at him.
He smile at me, and I smiled at him.

It must have been seconds before one of us, I can't remember who, broke the bond and began to eat.
As we ate neither of us said a word, and we would go back and forth between eating our food and starring at each other like we were the only people in Panera Bread.

Normally I dislike it when people stare at me. The way an eye can focus on a human body can easily make someone feel like an animal inside a cage at the zoo. But his stare was gentle---and not menacing or judging. His stare was studying.  Accurate as he flipped through me like a novel. It made me feel warm inside. I love being read, and I am picked off the shelf so very rarely---

We sat there for 20 minutes and did nothing but that. We sat there and ate our lunch in silence, and read each other in the stillness.

And as we finished we stopped and shared a moment of eye contact: His blue orbs focused on my chocolate ones: solely. And we had a conversation without moving our lips. Synchronized we talked to each other without saying a word. We talked about everything yet never said anything at all. In that moment, in that one wordless moment I knew so much.

I knew that these moments were rare and rare for a reason. they were dangerously beautiful. And scary. He had finished my book and placed me back into my shelf in the back. I closed his and returned it to it's owner.

I wanted to tell him he was beautiful and kind and that I felt sorry for reading his sad chapter in life--- but I didn't. I nodded my head, and he nodded back.
I knew he knew what I meant.

And we rose and stood there: never breaking our ocular bond.
And he said two words to me, the most honest and innocent: "Thank you" I have heard in my life.
It sounded like the fluttering of wings or the falling of snow on a rose petal.

I smiled and said "You're welcome" and with that one last look, we both got up, and walked out of Panera Bread. I did not turn to see him go. I don't think he saw me either.

He went his way.
And I went mine.

And I smiled to myself as I remember what his eyes told me what words could not.

I'd like to think that he was smiling too.