The Gift of the Socks

My real education in life began the year after I graduated high school when I met Charlie.

The frigid air, a record cold at seventeen degrees, seeped through the seals of the front display glass, and I turned up the floor heater in the sporting goods store I managed. The old retail building, built eighty years earlier, didn't have much insulation and no central heating and air.

I shivered, put up a Be Back in Ten Minutes sign, locked the door and crossed Main St to the Hiott's Drug Store for a cup of coffee.

A scene from Back to the Future would better describe the old drug store run by the same family for eighty years. When you entered, a mixture of various medicines, Hallmark cards, ancient walls, and the savory scent of toasted sandwiches from the Nineteenth century Soda Counter enveloped you.

An unshaven, long-haired, somewhat crusty man in his forties, in a faded GI jacket and dirty Dickie work pants, passed by me, and I smelled the blatant alcohol and rancid smokiness of his existence. A pharmacist in a long white frock, who may have been kin to Merlin the Wizard, stepped from behind the drug counter and intercepted the man.

"Charlie, how many times must I tell you, you aren't allowed in here without any money. Move along," he said.

Charlie responded by stepping through the door and exiting into the cold.

The old man turned his attention to me and slipped his glasses on as if to inspect me and approve my entry.

"Are you from around here?" he asked.

"No sir, I'm new here and run the new sporting goods store across the street. I grew up in Summerville," I said.

"I didn't think I recognized you. Well, Summerville's only thirty miles away I'm Dr. Hiott, the pharmacist here, I reckon we can be neighbors," he said and pointed toward Charlie across the street near the Farina furniture store.

"You see that guy there? He's a drunk and if you let him he will camp out in your store when it's cold. Don't let him," and he returned to his station behind his counter.

I bought a cup of coffee and a toasted pimento cheese sandwich and returned to my store.

The cold snap had remained the following morning, and I put out the open sign and unlocked the door. The entry bell rang, and I looked up to see Charlie enter. He wore the same clothes as the day before with his long gray and white hair swept back over his ears.

"Good morning," "I said. “How can I help you?"

"Just looking to keep warm for a minute," He said.

I didn't have any customers, and I didn't see the harm.

"Okay, that's fine," I said and introduced myself.

He looked a bit surprised and stood by the display, and shuffled his feet back and forth. I asked him where he was from, and he told me some of his story.

He had graduated from the local High School, dropped out of college when his mother unexpectedly died and was drafted into the Army and sent to Vietnam. When he came home, his nerves were shot, and he couldn't keep a job due to his wanton drinking. His family had disowned him, and he lived in an abandoned shack at the edge of the Walterboro Airport. He didn't blame his family and said that he would have done the same.

An hour later, I had an idea.

"Charlie, could you use a cup of coffee? I know I could," I said.

"Yes, I could, but I don't' have any money," he said.

"It's on me today. I will buy if you'll fly. I can't leave the store and you'll be doing me a huge favor," I said.

I handed him two dollars, and he stared at the money and then at me.

"You trust me with this?" he said. "How do you know I won't just take it and buy booze?"

"I don't know. But all I know is that we are friends and we are cold. Both of us can use a hot drink right now. That's enough for me," I said.

Twenty minutes later Charlie returned with two cups of coffee and handed me the change. It became a regular morning routine. He would come by the store each morning, and he'd fetch us coffee, and we'd talk about his early years as a star on the High School football and baseball team.

One day at lunchtime, I opted to get a sandwich from the Soda Fountain, and Dr. Hiott charged from behind his counter and confronted me.

"What are you doing young man? I told you not to let that man in your store. He's a drunk and he's going to cause you trouble," he said.

"I don't see the harm and he's not disrupting anything," I said.

"You're a fool to give him money. Word up and down the street is it's only a matter a time before he steals from you," he said, "You were warned."

Our coffee breaks turned into lunch breaks, and Charlie would go to various establishments on Main St. and pick our meals up and return. I started picking him up every morning and dropping him off at night to save him the three-mile walk from the airport to town. The shack had four walls and a partially collapsed ceiling with open rectangles where the windows used to be. A fifty-five-gallon drum sat in the middle, where he burned wood and trash to stay warm.

Over the next year, I learned from him that it used to be the Walterboro Army Air Field. The famous African-American Tuskegee Airmen of World War II had trained there. Charlie's remnant of a shack was one of their old living quarters. Doolittle's Raiders also trained there before their famous raid on Tokyo. Charlie was brilliant and told a good story.

The holidays approached, and I had prepared a simple gift for Charlie. I didn't want to embarrass him but felt compelled to do something for him. In the past year, not one time did he ever ask me for money, and I noticed he reeked less and less of alcohol, and I thought maybe I was just getting used to it.

As usual, he came by and retrieved our lunch from the diner. We ate and talked as usual, and I gave him the gift, a pair of thick socks, simply placed in one of the store's bags.

"What is this?" he said.

"It's a gift from me to you, to let you know I appreciate our friendship," I said.

"I don't have a gift for you," he said.

"That's the thing about gifts, Charlie, it's just that, and it's not a trading game. I hope you enjoy them, I said.

Charlie pulled his worn shoes off and exposed his dirty sockless feet. He looked at me as his eyes welled with tears.

"Thank you, it's the best present ever," and he slid them on his feet.

The Holiday passed, and I stopped by the airport to pick up Charlie on a Monday morning, but he wasn't there. I anticipated Charlie's visit later in the day, but he didn't come. Three days turned to three weeks, and I had not found him. I asked around the street, and no one had seen him since before Christmas.

I checked with the City police officer who walked Main St. beat, and he hadn't seen him either. He checked the local hospital and morgue for me and found nothing. It was a mystery. Charlie had disappeared. It concerned me that my gift had embarrassed him and driven him away.

A month later, in late January on another frigid day, I put up a Be Back in Ten Minutes sign, locked the door, and crossed Main St to the drug store for a cup of coffee. I walked to the counter and waited my turn. From behind me, a hand grabbed my arm, and I turned to see Charlie. I almost didn't recognize him. He was clean-shaven with a crew cut and wore a heavy plaid hunting shirt, clean pants, and new boots.

I learned that he had reached out to his family over the holidays, and they had made amends. He went into rehab and now lives with his daughter. He had a job, and he planned to move into his own place in the spring.

Charlie shook my hand and pulled me into an embrace. I can still smell the Aqua Velva aftershave.

"Thank you for making me feel human again. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" he said.

It was the best cup of coffee I have ever tasted.