I bought shawarma for a homeless man and his dog on a bitter winter evening. It seemed like a simple act of kindness at the time. But when he slipped me a note hinting at a past I’d completely forgotten, I knew this was no ordinary encounter.
That day had been particularly rough because holiday shoppers demanded refunds for items they’d clearly worn. Also, a register kept jamming, and my daughter, Amy, had texted me about failing another math test. We’d definitely had to think about hiring a tutor.
All these things were on my mind when my shift ended. Even worse, the temperature had dropped to bone-chilling levels. The thermometer outside the store showed 26.6°F. The wind howled between buildings, whipping loose papers across the sidewalk as I walked outside. I pulled my coat tighter, dreaming of the warm bath I would set up at home.
On my way to the bus, I saw the shawarma stand that had been there almost as long as I’d worked in the store. It was between a closed flower shop and a dim convenience store. Steam rose from the grill’s metal surface into the warm air. The scent of roasted meat and spices almost made me stop for one. But I didn’t particularly like the vendor. He was a stocky man with permanent frown lines.
The food was good, and you could get your shawarma in two seconds, but I wasn’t in the mood for any grumpiness today.
But I still stopped when I saw a homeless man and his dog walking up to the stand. The man, who was around 55 years old, looked cold and definitely hungry as he stared at the rotating meat. The man wore a thin coat, and the poor puppy lacked fur. My heart broke for them. “You gonna order something or just stand there?” the vendor’s sharp voice startled me. I watched the homeless man gather his courage. “Sir, please. Just some hot water?” he asked, his shoulders hunched.