He sits on the steps of the Shell Station. A backpack beside him. His skin is rawhide. His beard is white.
His name is Buck. He’s from North Carolina. He fought in Korea, and completed two tours in Vietnam.
He’s not here begging, he’s resting his feet.
“My old feet hurt more’n they used to,” says Buck. “It’s a bitch getting old, buddy.”
There is a half-smoked cigar next to him. He dug it from an ashtray. It still has life in it, he says.
He’s sipping coffee.
“First cup’a Joe I had in a week,” he tells me. “Fella gave me a quarter, few minutes ago. Piled my coins together to buy me a cup.”
When Buck went inside to buy it, there were only cold dregs left. He asked the cashier if it were possible to brew a fresh pot. She told him to get lost.
So, he’s drinking dregs—for which he is grateful.
There are holes in his shoes. He found these sneakers in a sporting-good-store dumpster. Buck estimates he’s put nearly eight hundred miles on them.
His bloody toes poke through the
fronts. His middle toenail is missing.
Buck explains, “God say, ‘Don't worry what you’ll eat drink or wear.’ That's hard sometimes. Specially when you ain’t eaten.”
I walk inside the gas station on a mission. I ask the aforementioned cashier to brew a fresh pot of coffee—for me.
She smiles and says, “Sure, sweetie.”
Ain't she nice.
I buy a hot cup, an armful of snacks, and a pack of Swisher Unsweetened Mini-Cigars. I give them to Buck, and I tuck a bill into his hand. I wish I had something bigger, but I don't.
Buck starts crying.
And the truth is, I’m embarrassed to even be telling you this. Because this story isn’t about me—it’s about Buck.
“Did you know that I see God in you?” Buck tells me through glazed…