The Bum
This is a short story. No if's, and's, or but's about it. It's short. Not very long at all. I really don't have a definitive answer as to why it's so short. Maybe it's because I wanted to get straight to the point. Maybe that's all there is to tell. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because no matter how short the story is, it's the lesson that will last forever.
This story begins at the End. Well, sort off. Hmmm... Maybe that's why it's so short? Whatever. Back to the ending. You see, there's a student named Jim and he's about to give an oral essay in his sociology class. It's a final. Very important stuff. And I can tell you that he gets an "A". But that's not what's important. At least not THE most important thing for Jim anymore. Wait, there I go again, getting ahead of myself. Any way's, I only have a few minutes before Jim starts his essay too give you the background story. So how about we start right now.
Much like the rest of this story. This is going to be short and sweet. One paragraph at the most. OK maybe two. Let's see. Let's start with Jim, the man who's essay will take up the most of this story. Jim was your typical upper middle class suburbinite with an A Type personality that wanted to be CEO of a company. He laughed at the old people in the park doing Tai Chi but secretly had always wanted to try it. He had a soft spot for kids but had always hated lazy people. Which he pretty much deemed everyone else to be. He also wanted to make a lot of money and live the life of luxury. By any means necessary. That's pretty typical right?
Now let's set the table for whom the essay was written about. Pierre the Bum. That's right, I said, Pierre the Bum. You see, Pierre really thought he was french. And who knows, maybe he really was. But most of the kids at the college just thought he was crazy. I mean, he didn't even have an accent. But he did have great stories to tell. And he told them to whoever would listen. Some of the students did, some gave him money, but most just decided that he wasn't there at all.
Which brings us to today. And the essay that Jim wrote just late last night. In fact he just walked up to the front of the class to give his oral essay. See I told you I only had a few minutes:
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"Material things are not gifts but apologies for gifts. The only true gift is a portion of thyself." Ralph Waldo Emerson was onto something. Unfortunately for me, I found out the hard way. Fortunately for you, I will never forget that lesson.
This isn't my original oral essay. I had already finshed my original one titled "The Climate of International Business" a full month ago. I've actually spent the last two weeks practicing and tweaking it. I knew I was going to get an "A" because that's what I do. School was my ticket to the fast lane. I always knew I was going to be successful no matter where I ended up. What I didn't know was that I would be "successful" in a way I never thought possible.
Three days ago I had set up a lunch with a former professor of mine and we were going to go over the original oral essay I had written for this final. I just wanted, no needed, to hear from someone from the faculty that it was worthy of my standards. But something funny happened on the way to the cafe. I was running 15 minutes late. So when I finally found a parking spot I parked my car, reached into my pocket to pay the meter, and pulled out a piece of lint. I couldn't believe that I didn't have any change to put into the meter. I cursed, yelled, and hit the inanimate object. And just like a scene from an old western movie, the sidewalks were empty. No one was around. That's when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Pierre the bum. And he had $2.15 in change which he calmy handed over to me. Then he walked away mumbling something. By the time the shock wore off he was a good 20 feet away from me so I yelled "I'll pay you back, thanks!"
Now, let me explain the relationship I had with Pierre prior to this day. We didn't have one. As far as I was concerned he wasn't important enough to acknowledge. He was lazy, unmotivated, and probably deserved to be where he was. I did give him some credit though because I had also seen how he worked, almost every student here has seen it. Brilliant for a bum if you ask me. And just in case you haven't seen him at work, let me explain to you what I mean: Pierre would approach you with a hand out to shake, and ask if you would like to hear a story. Sometimes he would go straight into the story. If you hung around to hear what he had to say, you would find yourself at the end of the story with Pierre waving his hat upside down in front of your face asking you if you had any spare change. Most people put some change in there, some just laughed and walked away. But either way he always said "Merci de l'écoute, au revoir".
My lunch was a disaster. Not only was I late but I couldn't get some thoughts out of my head. $2.15 meant nothing to me. But it had to mean the world to him. How many stories did he tell? How long did it take to make that money? Was that all he had? Why did he give it to me? Another thought entered my mind, if a multi-millionaire donates a full's day income of $150,000 or a bum who lives off change donates all the money in his pocket of $2.15, who gave more? I couldn't think straight. So I ended the lunch early to find Pierre and ask him those questions.
Now, let me ask you a question. What will you be doing today at 3:30? How about 4:30? Some of you may be getting out of class. Maybe even getting some coffee. Well, I can tell you exactly where most of the homeless people will be. You see at 3:30pm every Friday the toy store on Lincoln Ave. puts all the cardboard they got from that day's shipment on the outside of thier delivery doors. And that's where Pierre would go every Friday to get his home. That's where he got his living room, his kitchen, and his bedroom for the rest of the week. I can also tell you that at 4:30pm they will all head to St. Stephen's for what I was told was the best meal in town. How do I know all of this? Well, because I found Pierre after lunch that day and we talked. We talked for 6 hours straight.
Pierre was one of the nicest people I have ever met. He was just too happy to talk to me. He seemed excited. I could also tell he had a huge heart. Everyone there seemed to love him and he returned that love. It was nothing like the superficial friendships I had at school. This was genuine. He said he wanted me to meet some of his friends. He then offered me some water from his water bottle. I declined as nice as I could.
I learned a lot in those 6 hours. We talked about how he lived in a community. About how in that community they took care of eachother. I felt it too, because the whole time I was there I felt like an outsider. Eventhough he introduced me to some of his friends and most of them were cordial, I was not a part of thier community. I was never and probably would never be let into that circle completely.
One of the biggest surprises was all the different reasons people had for living on the street. Sure, you had your drug addicts, run away's, and mentally ill people. But you also had a college graduate who's business went under. You had the man who lost everything when his house burnt down. The woman who got fired, then injured, and just couldn't get up from that. Stories like these were repeated one after the other. That's when it hit me. These people were not lazy for the most part. They were people who fell through the cracks. And it could happen to any of us.
The biggest lesson I learned was the most important one of all. The reason Pierre told stories was to, yes, get some money. Afterall you have survive off of something right? The other reason was because he wanted to get acknowledged. He wanted validation. You see, one of the biggest gripes that the community of homeless people had was that they felt invisible to the rest of the world. Person after person there told me that they wanted to feel like they mattered or counted. Too often they told me that people acted like they weren't there. They walked passed them, walked over them, or simply walked on the other side of the street. I was one of those people and it hit me hard to hear them say that. But Pierre found a way to be heard. A way to make people see him. Genius. He wanted to make a connection with other human biengs, that's why he told the stories.
After our long engaging talk I told Pierre I had to go but that I would be back the next day to pay him back. I also told him that I wanted to hear one of his famous stories when I returned. I never got a chance to hear one.
Pierre died that night. Two days ago to be exact. There was no funeral, no viewing. He died simply because it got too cold that night. He died because his cardboard house didn't have the insulation that my walls have. He died because he couldn't climb out of that crack he fell through.
I found out when I went back the next day to pay him back. His friend Chris told me. I couldn't believe it. I even felt some guilt. What if that $2.15 would have bought him a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. What if I gave him the twenty I had in my wallet instead of wanting to give hime exactly what he gave me. (Jim paused here, he had never cried in front of other people before) I didn't want to believe it. Here's this guy just trying to connect with people, trying to make people laugh or smile, and willing to give all the money he had to a complete stranger and he's dead.
That's when it hit me. Pierre's the one who gave me a gift. Not the $2.15. No that wasn't it. He gave me a piece of him. He allowed me into his world. He made a friend. He made a connection. And I in turn gained an invaluable life lesson. People are priceless. A chance meeting with a loving human being was worth more than any amount of money in the world. I felt rich.
I still want to make a lot of money. I still want to graduate and live a good life. But I no longer want to do it by any means neccessary. And I want to share my wealth with those less fortunate. I want to give a portion of myself. I want to be loved liked Pierre was with his friends. And if your wondering about the questions I wanted to ask Pierre when I left my lunch I only asked one because the answer told me everything. I aksed him why he gave me the $2.15. He told me he gave it too me because he could. Thank you Pierre.
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And with that, Jim walked down the center aisle of the classroom, opened the door, and left. He didn't know what grade he was going to get and frankly he didn't care. What did matter to him was that everyone in that classroom heard what he had to say.
And that's the end of my short story. I hope you liked it. Now I know that money has no value up here but old habits are hard to break. So if you have any change to spare, anything, I would appreciate it if you would put it into my hat... Merci de l'écoute, au revoir.
This story begins at the End. Well, sort off. Hmmm... Maybe that's why it's so short? Whatever. Back to the ending. You see, there's a student named Jim and he's about to give an oral essay in his sociology class. It's a final. Very important stuff. And I can tell you that he gets an "A". But that's not what's important. At least not THE most important thing for Jim anymore. Wait, there I go again, getting ahead of myself. Any way's, I only have a few minutes before Jim starts his essay too give you the background story. So how about we start right now.
Much like the rest of this story. This is going to be short and sweet. One paragraph at the most. OK maybe two. Let's see. Let's start with Jim, the man who's essay will take up the most of this story. Jim was your typical upper middle class suburbinite with an A Type personality that wanted to be CEO of a company. He laughed at the old people in the park doing Tai Chi but secretly had always wanted to try it. He had a soft spot for kids but had always hated lazy people. Which he pretty much deemed everyone else to be. He also wanted to make a lot of money and live the life of luxury. By any means necessary. That's pretty typical right?
Now let's set the table for whom the essay was written about. Pierre the Bum. That's right, I said, Pierre the Bum. You see, Pierre really thought he was french. And who knows, maybe he really was. But most of the kids at the college just thought he was crazy. I mean, he didn't even have an accent. But he did have great stories to tell. And he told them to whoever would listen. Some of the students did, some gave him money, but most just decided that he wasn't there at all.
Which brings us to today. And the essay that Jim wrote just late last night. In fact he just walked up to the front of the class to give his oral essay. See I told you I only had a few minutes:
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Material things are not gifts but apologies for gifts. The only true gift is a portion of thyself." Ralph Waldo Emerson was onto something. Unfortunately for me, I found out the hard way. Fortunately for you, I will never forget that lesson.
This isn't my original oral essay. I had already finshed my original one titled "The Climate of International Business" a full month ago. I've actually spent the last two weeks practicing and tweaking it. I knew I was going to get an "A" because that's what I do. School was my ticket to the fast lane. I always knew I was going to be successful no matter where I ended up. What I didn't know was that I would be "successful" in a way I never thought possible.
Three days ago I had set up a lunch with a former professor of mine and we were going to go over the original oral essay I had written for this final. I just wanted, no needed, to hear from someone from the faculty that it was worthy of my standards. But something funny happened on the way to the cafe. I was running 15 minutes late. So when I finally found a parking spot I parked my car, reached into my pocket to pay the meter, and pulled out a piece of lint. I couldn't believe that I didn't have any change to put into the meter. I cursed, yelled, and hit the inanimate object. And just like a scene from an old western movie, the sidewalks were empty. No one was around. That's when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Pierre the bum. And he had $2.15 in change which he calmy handed over to me. Then he walked away mumbling something. By the time the shock wore off he was a good 20 feet away from me so I yelled "I'll pay you back, thanks!"
Now, let me explain the relationship I had with Pierre prior to this day. We didn't have one. As far as I was concerned he wasn't important enough to acknowledge. He was lazy, unmotivated, and probably deserved to be where he was. I did give him some credit though because I had also seen how he worked, almost every student here has seen it. Brilliant for a bum if you ask me. And just in case you haven't seen him at work, let me explain to you what I mean: Pierre would approach you with a hand out to shake, and ask if you would like to hear a story. Sometimes he would go straight into the story. If you hung around to hear what he had to say, you would find yourself at the end of the story with Pierre waving his hat upside down in front of your face asking you if you had any spare change. Most people put some change in there, some just laughed and walked away. But either way he always said "Merci de l'écoute, au revoir".
My lunch was a disaster. Not only was I late but I couldn't get some thoughts out of my head. $2.15 meant nothing to me. But it had to mean the world to him. How many stories did he tell? How long did it take to make that money? Was that all he had? Why did he give it to me? Another thought entered my mind, if a multi-millionaire donates a full's day income of $150,000 or a bum who lives off change donates all the money in his pocket of $2.15, who gave more? I couldn't think straight. So I ended the lunch early to find Pierre and ask him those questions.
Now, let me ask you a question. What will you be doing today at 3:30? How about 4:30? Some of you may be getting out of class. Maybe even getting some coffee. Well, I can tell you exactly where most of the homeless people will be. You see at 3:30pm every Friday the toy store on Lincoln Ave. puts all the cardboard they got from that day's shipment on the outside of thier delivery doors. And that's where Pierre would go every Friday to get his home. That's where he got his living room, his kitchen, and his bedroom for the rest of the week. I can also tell you that at 4:30pm they will all head to St. Stephen's for what I was told was the best meal in town. How do I know all of this? Well, because I found Pierre after lunch that day and we talked. We talked for 6 hours straight.
Pierre was one of the nicest people I have ever met. He was just too happy to talk to me. He seemed excited. I could also tell he had a huge heart. Everyone there seemed to love him and he returned that love. It was nothing like the superficial friendships I had at school. This was genuine. He said he wanted me to meet some of his friends. He then offered me some water from his water bottle. I declined as nice as I could.
I learned a lot in those 6 hours. We talked about how he lived in a community. About how in that community they took care of eachother. I felt it too, because the whole time I was there I felt like an outsider. Eventhough he introduced me to some of his friends and most of them were cordial, I was not a part of thier community. I was never and probably would never be let into that circle completely.
One of the biggest surprises was all the different reasons people had for living on the street. Sure, you had your drug addicts, run away's, and mentally ill people. But you also had a college graduate who's business went under. You had the man who lost everything when his house burnt down. The woman who got fired, then injured, and just couldn't get up from that. Stories like these were repeated one after the other. That's when it hit me. These people were not lazy for the most part. They were people who fell through the cracks. And it could happen to any of us.
The biggest lesson I learned was the most important one of all. The reason Pierre told stories was to, yes, get some money. Afterall you have survive off of something right? The other reason was because he wanted to get acknowledged. He wanted validation. You see, one of the biggest gripes that the community of homeless people had was that they felt invisible to the rest of the world. Person after person there told me that they wanted to feel like they mattered or counted. Too often they told me that people acted like they weren't there. They walked passed them, walked over them, or simply walked on the other side of the street. I was one of those people and it hit me hard to hear them say that. But Pierre found a way to be heard. A way to make people see him. Genius. He wanted to make a connection with other human biengs, that's why he told the stories.
After our long engaging talk I told Pierre I had to go but that I would be back the next day to pay him back. I also told him that I wanted to hear one of his famous stories when I returned. I never got a chance to hear one.
Pierre died that night. Two days ago to be exact. There was no funeral, no viewing. He died simply because it got too cold that night. He died because his cardboard house didn't have the insulation that my walls have. He died because he couldn't climb out of that crack he fell through.
I found out when I went back the next day to pay him back. His friend Chris told me. I couldn't believe it. I even felt some guilt. What if that $2.15 would have bought him a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. What if I gave him the twenty I had in my wallet instead of wanting to give hime exactly what he gave me. (Jim paused here, he had never cried in front of other people before) I didn't want to believe it. Here's this guy just trying to connect with people, trying to make people laugh or smile, and willing to give all the money he had to a complete stranger and he's dead.
That's when it hit me. Pierre's the one who gave me a gift. Not the $2.15. No that wasn't it. He gave me a piece of him. He allowed me into his world. He made a friend. He made a connection. And I in turn gained an invaluable life lesson. People are priceless. A chance meeting with a loving human being was worth more than any amount of money in the world. I felt rich.
I still want to make a lot of money. I still want to graduate and live a good life. But I no longer want to do it by any means neccessary. And I want to share my wealth with those less fortunate. I want to give a portion of myself. I want to be loved liked Pierre was with his friends. And if your wondering about the questions I wanted to ask Pierre when I left my lunch I only asked one because the answer told me everything. I aksed him why he gave me the $2.15. He told me he gave it too me because he could. Thank you Pierre.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
And with that, Jim walked down the center aisle of the classroom, opened the door, and left. He didn't know what grade he was going to get and frankly he didn't care. What did matter to him was that everyone in that classroom heard what he had to say.
And that's the end of my short story. I hope you liked it. Now I know that money has no value up here but old habits are hard to break. So if you have any change to spare, anything, I would appreciate it if you would put it into my hat... Merci de l'écoute, au revoir.
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