The Greatest Gift

Every day, I see a man on the corner of Kukko Way while I'm driving to work. He looks like your typical homeless man: threadbare clothes, unkempt gray hair and beard, deep wrinkles lining the corners of his eyes and mouth.

At first, I ignore him, just as I do all the others that I have seen begging around the city. I've heard too many rumors and horror stories from friends and coworkers about being approached by knife-wielding psychos on the street.

But day after day, I see him there. He sits at the base of the brick wall with a little bucket in front of him for spare change. He doesn't get up to confront anyone, doesn't start randomly accusing thin air of some crime or another, and certainly doesn't assault any of the people passing by him without a glance. He sits there, observing the world, and merely offers a cordial smile and nod to the ones who look in his direction. Nobody ever smiles back.

I shake my head when the 'maybe he's harmless' thought pops up. I can't let my guard down. Who knows what lies behind that gentlemanly veneer?

This goes on for about three weeks.

On Thursday morning, I'm running late because my old '99 Ford Focus decided to crap out on me twenty feet from the garage and I had to get it towed. Thankfully the coffee shop I work at isn't too far away; I can make it in thirty minutes if I run.

The old homeless man is there on the corner as he always is, but today is the first time that I'll be passing by him on foot as opposed to in a car. He sees me coming long before I reach him. I tense a little as I jog past him, my mind conjuring up all sorts of nasty imaginary scenarios of what could happen to me in those five seconds I'm near him.

He smiles and tells me, "Have a great day, miss."

That almost stops me in my tracks, because it was so... polite. It makes my head spin with confusion. I don't reply or look back at him as I continue down the street, but that one moment sticks with me throughout the day.

I'm closing the café tonight with the shift lead. As I take down the display case, I suddenly get an idea.

"Hey, Andrew? These are just going in the trash, right?"

Andrew looks up from where he's counting out the extra bills from the cash register. "Yeah, why? You want them instead?"

"Could I?"

"Sure, nobody else is going to eat them."

"Sweet!" I look over the selection and pick out two poppyseed muffins, storing them safely away in a paper bag. Then I resume my cleaning duties until the café is spotless.

I say goodbye to Andrew as we go our separate ways. The evening air is feeling a bit nippy for April, and I tuck one hand into my hoodie pocket to keep it warm. The paper bag rustles with every step I take.

The man is still sitting in the same spot on the corner, in the same cross-legged position as he had been in earlier this morning. I take a moment to observe him from a distance: how he continues to smile and wish people a good day despite never getting a reply back, how he looks like he wouldn't rather be anywhere else but that corner of the world.

I drudge up my courage and step in his direction. He turns, the same smile on his face, ready to give me another greeting.

I beat him to it when I thrust the paper bag in my hand towards him and say, "You look really lonely out here by yourself. Want to share a muffin with me?"

That marks the first major change I see in him. His eyes widen. He looks stunned that someone is actually talking to him. Then his whole face opens up, brown eyes crinkling with mirth, tangled beard quivering, hairy lips parting to reveal crooked, nicotine-stained teeth. I stare, transfixed, as he lets loose a throaty laugh that shakes his whole body. It's the kind of laugh I imagine an elderly grandfather might make at a particularly good 'dad' joke told over the dinner table.

"Ah, you're too kind, miss." The man's chuckles eventually die down, but the amusement remains in every wrinkle of his face. "Too kind, you are."

I take that as permission and I sit down next to him. He doesn't have that acrid, unwashed smell about him the way that I thought a homeless man would, which makes it that much easier for me to reach into the bag and pull one of the muffins out.

He doesn't take it when I try to give it to him, though. "I already got somethin' earlier, thanks. Give it to one of the young'uns, they sure need it more than this ol' bag o' bones."

"Oh, are you sure you don't want it for later?" I say, withdrawing my hand.

"Aye, I'm sure. Thank you kindly, miss. You've got a good heart." The man beams, reclining against the wall and turning his attention back to the darkened street, lit only by the glow of two yellow street lamps and the passing occasional car. He looks peaceful.

"Alright then." I put the muffin back in the bag and lounge back against the hard brick wall with him. Some of the people walking past us give me strange looks, but I chalk that up to them just wondering why I would bother to keep a homeless man company. I peer upwards at the navy sky, but the thin film of pollution over the city obscures the sight of any stars. "You know, I see you here every day. Do you ever want to go anywhere else?"

"Oh, sure. Loads o' places. Gardens, theaters, restaurants, even the malls. The missus and I always loved to go to the li'l café down that way, years ago. The Gentle Roast, it was called."

My mouth drops open in surprise and I look at him. "Really? I work there!"

"Do you now?" The man laughs again, the lines of crow's feet around his eyes deepening. "Aye, what a lucky coincidence. Haven't been 'round there since the missus passed away; I s'pose ol' Allen isn't the manager anymore?"

I shake my head. "No, the manager's name is Kristy."

"Shame, but it has been a long time." He lets out a gusty sigh and seems almost wistful now, a slight air of melancholy permeating the space around him. I shiver a little, crossing both my arms in an attempt to stave off the evening chill.

He notices, of course. "You don't have to stay here and keep an old man like me company, you know," he says.

"Even old men get lonely," I reply. "It is getting pretty cold, though. What if I help you find a warm place to sleep tonight?"

The man gifts me with another of those bright, warm grins. "You're much too kind, miss. Thanks for offerin', but I have a place to go already." He pauses thoughtfully. "If you don't mind doin' this old man a favor, however, could you open this box for me? Someone left it here awhile back."

I blink, curious, as he shifts to reveal a small box wrapped in plain brown paper on his other side. "You can't open it yourself?" I ask, reaching around him to pick it up.

"These old fingers don't work like they used to." He wiggles his hands—well, one hand because that's when I realize, with some horror, that it's the only one he has. The other arm ends in a stump and I kick myself internally for not noticing earlier.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to bring up any bad memories."

"It's a'right, I made my peace with it a long time ago," he says, not sounding offended at all. He smiles at me for good measure and gestures to the box. "Now if you could open that for me, miss?"

I tear away the paper first, then I gently lift the lid off of the box. Inside, a beautiful ornamental hairpin rests upon red velvet lining. The craftsmanship is exquisite—the polished gleam of the golden clip, the curled edges of the blooming pink rose, the tiny diamonds littering the flower's base, the strings of baby pearls dangling from the head, all of it comes together to form a wonderful hair adornment that would make any woman shine.

It must have cost a fortune.

I am admittedly confused as to why someone would give a homeless man an expensive and very feminine hairpin. But when I look back up at the man, I'm taken aback by the sight of copious tears leaking from his eyes.

"Whoa, are you okay?"

He does not appear to hear me as he reaches out with his hand to cradle the box. "So that's where it went," he whispers. He looks at me, smiling through the tears. Even though he's crying, he looks positively radiant compared to a few minutes ago, pure happiness and relief reflecting in his watery eyes and his wizened face. "Miss, will you tell me your name?"

I startle at the question and blush when I realize that I never introduced myself. "I'm Anna. Anna Hong. What about you?" I say.

"I'm Hank, and this—" he gestures to the hairpin, "—once belonged to my wife. It was stolen from me the day after she died and I hadn't thought I'd ever see it again, till now. So, from the bottom o' my heart, Miss Anna, thank you."

I smile back at him, reaching out to pat him on the back of his hand. He feels cold to the touch, but I don't let it bother me. "I'm glad I could help, Mr. Hank. You'll take care of it now so it doesn't get stolen again, right?"

He closes his eyes, laying his hand over the decorative hair piece. "I think it's in good hands now. Thanks to you, I can rest easy knowin' that the missus' treasure has finally found its way back to me."

"Mr. Hank?"

Hank opens his eyes, wiping them dry with the back of his hand. "You're a good lass, Miss Anna. I hope you don't ever lose that kindness o' yours."

He starts to get to his feet, but for some reason, he leaves the hairpin in its box on the ground. He grasps one of my hands in his own. I gasp at the icy contact, feeling an entirely different sort of chill run through my body, and I stare uncertainly back at him.

"I'm going home now. Thank you again, Miss Anna. May God bless you."

And right before my eyes, he vanishes into thin air, clothes and spare change bucket and all.

The only sign that he'd ever been there was the hairpin in the box, one edge of the rose smudged with the slightest bit of dirt. I pick it up and decide to keep it in case he wants it back.

With the box and muffin bag in hand, I hurry home. The muffins are given away to a homeless woman with a toddler the next morning; the box with the hairpin goes on my bookshelf so I don't forget about it.

I alternate between driving my crappy car and walking to work, hoping for a chance to speak with him once more, maybe to ask how he pulled off such an amazing vanishing act, one worthy of the greatest of stage magicians.

But Hank doesn't appear on the corner ever again.