*I entered the bookstore, and merely glancing at the dreadlocked couple immediately captured their interest—first his, then hers.
The eyes these thirty-somethings casually cast on me weren’t unkind but weren’t warm, either. Of course, I only know this because I kept a peripheral eye on them. After making my purchase, I was in the parking lot heading to my car when Mr. Dreadlocks caught up with me.
“When you walked in, I said to my wife, ‘I’m ninety percent sure that’s him…’”
“And I said,” his wife added, walking up in time to chime in, “‘Just go over and ask him.’”
“You started leaving,” the husband went on, “and I said, ‘I need to catch him and confirm it.’”
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He then shared a story about the day he and his wife arrived in Los Angeles two years prior. On their first morning in the city, they were about to enter a restaurant for breakfast when she stopped him. “We couldn’t afford to spend money on a sit-down breakfast,” she said.
“I said, ‘To hell with that,’” the husband explained. “‘We in L.A. We’re gonna eat.’ We ordered pancakes, omelets, hash browns, bacon, sausage, juice—everything. Our table was filled with food.” When they asked for the bill, the waiter said there wasn’t one. “He said, ‘A regular who eats here does this sometimes—he paid for your meal,’” the husband recounted. “He said the guy is always gone by the time people finish eating. We were like, ‘What?’
“I almost cried when the waiter told us we had just eaten for free. I vaguely remember seeing you there but didn’t think much of it until the waiter described you.” Seeing me at the bookstore stirred their memories. “Things are good for us now,” he said. “We always said if we ever saw you again, the meal would be on us.”
It was now my turn to feel emotional. I didn’t remember doing this. However, it must have happened because I often visit that restaurant, and yes, sometimes I anonymously buy breakfast for an unsuspecting diner.
Occasionally, I pay for the car behind me when I use the local drive-thru car wash. In the parking lot on my way into the supermarket, if I encounter a customer who has finished with a shopping cart, I’ll return it to the store for them. In heavy traffic, I will let someone merge while others keep going. When I give a couple of bucks to the homeless, I don’t tell them what they can or can’t do with it.
I don’t always engage in these actions. When I do, I ask myself if my behavior suggests self-aggrandizement. I want to think the answer is no. However, the ego, after all, is always lurking. All I truly know is that these acts of kindness feel rewarding.
It’s dimensional gratification: I enjoy buying someone a meal, and they enjoy the surprise. I’m gone before they finish eating, so any awkwardness is avoided.
A friend who knows I’m not exactly Big Willie once asked me how I can afford meals and car washes for strangers. My answer is that I can’t afford not to. I do it when able because I’ve been blessed in many ways. I am compelled to give.
As I write, a former next-door neighbor comes to mind. I’ll call him Marcus.
Until I met Marcus, married with four kids, I had never encountered a Brother who spoke to absolutely everyone. Marcus would stop and wave if he were in his front yard and a car drove by. Sometimes, the driver would return the gesture; most of the time, they looked bewildered. However, if that person went down our street regularly, they would soon begin returning the wave.
When someone on the block was away on an extended trip overseas, Marcus took the initiative to cut her grass for a month without being asked. In Marcus’s acts of kindness, there was no pretense or expectation of anything in return; it was simply who he was.
The most dramatic instance of Marcus’s goodwill occurred just past one AM on a Saturday. After an evening out, the elderly Asian couple living across the street was followed home by muggers and held at gunpoint in their driveway. As the crooks insisted on the couple’s valuables, the night’s tense serenity was suddenly shattered by BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Days later, I’d learn the blasts that awakened me and sent the would-be robbers scurrying originated from Marcus’s second-story bedroom window. Witnessing the crime unfold, he aimed a large gun at the ground near the criminals. Marcus felt conflicted about his decision to fire his weapon. I assured him that he had done the right thing.
I appreciate who Marcus is, wherever he may be these days, but I don’t need him for inspiration; today, the times do that. An era in which hate is shamelessly displayed can make one feel powerless to effect positive change. However, there is much we can do, the least of which is to perform quiet acts of kindness and compassion. It could be as simple as a smile or greeting to a stranger. Or an unsolicited deed of goodness. We need to remind one another that benignity still exists.
I gave my card to that couple at the bookstore, but we never met for that meal. I didn’t need to. Their sweet story of something I didn’t even remember doing nourished my spirit. And it was delicious.
Steven Ivory, veteran journalist, essayist, and author, writes and talks about popular culture across various platforms, including the Internet, TV, radio, documentaries, magazines, and newspapers. The Last Man on AOL is at [email protected]
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