Breakfast at Epiphanies

I lost my job. I lost my family. I lost my home. I lost everything. Last year was not a good year. In fact the last couple of years haven’t been so hot.

I’m doing the best I can. Living on the streets of Memphis isn’t easy any time – but it’s really tough in winter. It’s January now and the winds blow through downtown like a wind tunnel. The buildings amplify the wind, and the wind amplifies the cold.

Almost all I own I carry with me in a plastic Walmart bag: some clean underwear, a bar of soap, a couple of pictures of my daughter, a few dollars and an old cellphone that doesn’t work. I carry the cellphone that doesn’t work because it contains so many precious memories. Voicemails and text messages, bits and pieces of a life torn apart are all locked in that little black phone.

I own one other thing too. I will get to that later.

I take most of my meals at the food bank; I like the free meals at the churches better – when they do offer them to people like me – which isn’t very often.

I sleep in the alley between Big Bob’s BBQ and the Ace Hardware Store. It’s dark and quiet. I don’t know if it’s safe – but no one has bothered me yet. It keeps the wind off of me at least. It offers me some protection from the worst thing about winter – the howling bitter wind.

My only other possession – an old sleeping bag — is hidden there. I hide it behind some loose bricks in the wall which belongs to Big Bob’s. Bricks which Bob needs to repair but never does. If he does, my only other possession will be discovered and I’ll be left with whatever remains in the Walmart bag.

Every day is the same. The days of the week lost their meaning quite a while ago. I measure time in seasons, not in hours, days, weeks or months. I don’t have a calendar except for one on the cellphone. But I don’t need one anyway. I have nowhere to go; and I have nothing to do. All I need to know about the seasons I can tell by looking at the sky. I can tell the season by looking at the slant of the sun’s rays and the depth of the blue the sky wears. The blue changes with the seasons, you know. Most people never notice it. They’re too concerned with Tuesdays and Saturdays and Mondays and watches and calendars to really notice the sky. They’re mostly looking down. I’m mostly looking up. It’s funny. When you’re down you look up and when you’re up you look down. Life has its twists and turns.

I don’t know what today is. I know it is January 3rd because the time and temperature sign that flashes on the Third National Bank building on Fawcett Street tells me so. It now tells me it is 24 degrees. It also tells me it is 11:34AM on Sunday January 3, 2012. It is just another day to me.

My winter coat barely keeps me warm this morning. Actually it barely keeps me warm at all when the temperature gets much below 35. And it’s much below 35 this morning. I know this courtesy of the Third National Bank of Memphis. But I really wouldn’t need help from the bank to tell me it’s much below 35 degrees. My body tells me just fine. I’m shivering.

I’m hungry.

I’m passing an old Baptist church now, looking for free food like a squirrel looking for a nut. It used to bother me, but It doesn’t anymore. I’ve grown accustomed to being a forager. It is how I have learned to live in my own little brave new world.

The good Baptists are not passing out free meals this morning – so I’ll just keep walking toward the food bank on Olcott Street. There are two more possible church meals between where I am and where I am going. I like the church meals better than the food bank meals. Less pasta. More meat. But I’ve learned to take what I can get. And the most important thing I’ve learned is to be thankful for the little things. If you’re not thankful for the little things you have, you’ll never appreciate the big things you have. I don’t think many people really believe that. You have to live like I do to learn that lesson.

When your life is full of big dreams and a lot of material things, you forget the little dreams and the little – seemingly insignificant — things. It’s hard for me to remember back – back to a time when things were good. It is difficult for me to remember what it was like when I too, dreamed big, lived big and I had more material things than I knew what to do with.

One thing I’ve learned in my new “life” — if one could even call it that – is to never look back. And if you do look back, don’t do it for very long or it will rip out your soul and leave you wanting to die. So I’ve learned not to look back very much and to try to live one day at a time.

Now my dreams are very small, my wants are very few, and my expectations very low. It’s funny how happy the sound of a bird’s song can make me feel now. On some days the birds’ songs are the only songs I hear other than the metallic throbbing bass that floats from muffled from car radios as they whiz past me on the streets of Memphis. It is winter and everyone has their car windows closed. Muted music or bird songs? I’ll take the bird songs any day.

But it’s winter and there are many bird songs to hear. Yet there are still some.

Well it looks like St. Mary’s Church is not going to feed me today. One more chance before the food bank: The Methodist Church on the corner of Oxley and Fawcett. The Methodists are my last hope. But even if the Methodists don’t come though, it’s okay. The food bank will have something for me. They always do.

I never gave much to the food bank in my old life. Another irony, I muse. Now that I have nothing they give me what I need most. When I had everything, I gave them nothing at all. I feel like a scoundrel. But I feel all right because I’m serving a harsh sentence for what I’ve done.

It all equals out, I think.

And here I go again. Damn it. I hate it when my mind starts to drift back and tease me with those thoughts of what might have been – and what will never be. Sometimes I just can’t stop it. The best I can do is put the brakes on it and keep those thoughts from becoming a runaway train.

I’m a few blocks from the Methodist church, and even further from the food bank.

In times like these walking is the spark that ignites the fire of thought. In this life, thinking too much is really a bad thing for me. I look down and see my brown walking boots – salvaged from my former life – the Velcro straps are so old they don’t stick well anymore. My boot straps flap in the wind; they bounce with every step. I remember when they were brand new. There’s a story behind these boots. But I can’t tell it without crying; and I can’t cry because my tears will freeze. No that’s not the reason I can’t cry. I can’t cry because if I start I won’t be able to stop. I can’t allow myself the luxury of tears.

I’ve cried enough in the last couple years to fill a swimming pool.

My jeans are torn and frayed, and my belt has gotten too big for me. My undershirt is ripped and my flannel shirt is ragged. I look like a bum and that is what I am. I have no money with which to buy new things so I do the best with the things I have. As long as I don’t think about what I don’t have, I don’t have to think about what I might have or what I would have had, had things worked out just once.

When you don’t have much, you don’t want much. Well that’s not true. When you don’t have much you can’t want much or you’ll end up disappointed and full of despair. When you’re struggling to survive you can’t afford the luxury of despair. Living life on the street leaves little room for disappointment. And there is certainly no room in my sleeping bag – or even in the Walmart bag for self-pity.

The Methodists are not feeling so generous – no Methodist meals for me today. It’s looking more and more like some kind of pasta and sauce from the food bank – and an orange or apple for dessert.

Apples and oranges may not be cake and ice cream, but at least I can carry them in my Walmart bag and have a little bed time snack – like I used to do in my old life. See? There I go again, allowing my mind to drift back. I shake of the past and I have to laugh at phrase “bed time”. What bed? What time? I sleep when I can. My bed is the asphalt of the alley cushioned by a dirty, ratty old sleeping bag I fished out of a Dumpster behind the Old South Drive-thru over on Perry Street six or seven months ago. Who could be happy with such a shabby thing? Anyone who has ever had to sleep on cold asphalt, I guess.

As I’m about to turn onto Olcott Street from Fawcett and make my way to the food bank when I pass by a restaurant that until today was called “Mancy’s”. I notice they’ve changed the name to Epiphanies. Mancy’s for Rich People is what I called it. I pass by it almost every day, but seldom pay any attention to it. I can’t afford it and I know it. Hell, I can’t afford McDonald’s.

It looks like Epiphanies is the same kind of trendy place that Mancy’s used to be and that means it isn’t meant for mendicants like me.

I see in the sign in the window. I almost walk by without reading it, but I stop and read it anyway because I’m in no hurry. The food bank is open until 9PM. I don’t know exactly what time it is but I can guess it’s around 12:15 or so. I know how long it takes to walk to the food bank. I’ve walked it dozens and dozens of times. So I’m guessing it must be 12:15 or 12:20PM by now.

The sign said: “Free breakfast all day today”.

Well that can’t be. The rich never give to the poor without a good reason – like a tax break or some other kind of financial advantage. So I am skeptical but hungry. Skeptical but hungry — that’s me. I have nothing to lose, and a decent breakfast to gain, so I pull open the heavy glass door to Epiphanies. I walk in looking like a bum. As well I should, that’s what I am.

The place is about half-full. I’m surprised. I thought the lure of free food would have attracted a more substantial number of customers. But customers are typical Mancy’s customers. They’re all dressed to kill, except for me. Everyone looks up at me as I walk in. I don’t care. It doesn’t bother me. It didn’t bother me in my old life when I had much – so it sure doesn’t bother me now when I have little.

I have nothing to lose anymore – but a breakfast to gain. I am brave and hungry. If they don’t seat me – they don’t seat me. The food bank is only just over a block away. So I will eat today one way or the other. I’d rather have bacon and eggs and waffles and good coffee – but I can make do with macaroni and cheese and bad coffee. Oh, and an apple or orange.

The hostess glances at me then quickly looks away as if I’m not here. But I am and she can’t ignore me forever. I wait and look right at the hostess – I’m sure she can feel my eyes boring into the back o her blonde little head. Finally she acknowledges me and approaches me cautiously much like, I imagine, one would approach something that they think will smell foul when they get near it – like an overflowing garbage Dumpster or a partially-opened container of ham salad that got stuck back in the back of the refrigerator for too long.

She doesn’t make eye contact with me. She looks at me in the way you might look at a leper if you thought eye contact would cause you to contract their disease. She shows me to a table in the back corner – far from the madding yuppie crowd. It’s a small table for two. I sit down and set my Walmart bag on the floor next to me. I smile a little as I think about asking her to sit down with me – as a joke – but I decide I’d better not. She’d not think I was joking and I might miss out on a free breakfast. She hands me a menu – which, of course, I don’t need – and she turns and walks away. As she hurries away, I quietly say, “Thank you”, politely.

I still remember my manners. Even in this world.

I don’t really need a menu. I have no money except for a few crinkled one-dollar bills and some change in the bottom of my Walmart bag. I am only here for the free breakfast – whatever it may be. Whatever it may be is better that whatever it may be at the food bank. I spend a long time staring out the window at street and I see it has begun to snow. Big puffy flakes today — just what I need. I can’t change the weather anymore now than I could when I had money, love and lots of THINGS. But when I had much I could more easily escape the weather’s capriciousness — and its wrath. I keep in mind that in some bizarre way, I deserve what I get so I don’t dwell on fancy houses with fireplaces or California King Beds with soft, warm flannel sheets.

I can’t let myself do that. It only makes me want things I cannot ever have.

I feel the stares on me, but I keep my eyes focused on snow falling outside. I am careful to avoid eye-contact with anyone in this place. It reminds me too much of what I used to be and of what I used to have, and of what I still could have had not been such a fool. It doesn’t matter though. I can’t let it matter. Life is what it is no matter how much I wish it wasn’t.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a server coming toward me. She’s going to take my order. She’ll ask me if I’ve decided and of course I have. I have decided on the free breakfast.

She smiles and says “Hi. My name is Becky and I’ll be your server today.” She says it in a cheerful sort of way – as if I were a regular paying customer. Little does she know. I think “Lucky you!”, but don’t say it. Instead I say “Hi Becky”. I don’t give my name though. I don’t recall if I’m supposed to or not. I try hard to not remember how things used to be – it would make me cry tears I can no longer afford to cry.

“I’ll have the free breakfast” I say without even asking what the free breakfast is. I say it with as confident a tone of voice as I can manage, given my rather unfortunate circumstances – and my shabby appearance. I don’t belong in a place like this anymore and I know it. But I’m hungry and I’m tired of noodles and pasta floating in some unrecognizable sauce. I’m not ungrateful for the food bank food, I’m just me. I’m human. OK?

Becky says – and with a sweet smile too– “We have two different free breakfasts. One is waffles, sausage links and coffee. The other is the Epiphany.” I must have looked confused because she asked me if I’d like her to tell me again. I say “No. But what is the Epiphany?” Becky’s smile disappears but she maintains a pleasant expression and says…”You know what the Epiphany is. You’ve had it before.” I’m confused and tell her that I’ve never been here before.

Becky, probably breaking all kinds of rules sits down and looks at me. “You’ve been here many times before. You’re always looking for the Epiphany”. I feel like I’m caught in the Twilight Zone. I feel dizzy and nauseous. I say, “I’ve never been in this place in my life. Before today, this place used to be called Mancy’s and I was never in there before either.” I feel like I’m losing consciousness and Becky seems to be floating away like a ghost in a puff of smoke pushed along by a strange green wind.

I close my eyes and reopen them as if to reassure myself I’m still here and still sane. But when I open them I’m no longer in a restaurant talking to Becky -I am sitting in an airport lounge reading an email. The title of it is “An Epiphany”. It’s from my former fiancé who said she had an epiphany on this beautiful April morning. As I read that email I got that floating, drifting feeling you get when a fairy tale turns real. Or a dream comes true.

And just for that brief magical moment everything was as it should be. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and so was my heart: an epiphany for her and an epiphany for me. What could be better than sharing an epiphany with the love of your life?

All was right with the world.

I feel rainy ice pellets stinging my eyelids and hear the cold, hard groan of a garbage truck’s compactor squeezing another load of garbage into a small smelly lump. When I finally get the courage to open my eyes, I realize I’m back in the alley between Big Bob’s and the hardware store – tucked in my broken-down sleeping bag. I’m alone again, naturally.

It’s January not April, and the rain has mixed with ice. My sleeping bag is soaked with rain and covered with tiny bits of ice.

I shiver in my cold loneliness. I shake the cobwebs of sleep from my brain. I awake back in my own life, and I am startled by this world I’ve created: a world of shattered dreams and epiphanies that would never, ever come again.

I start to cry the tears I cannot afford to cry. They freeze hard and cold on my cheeks. The cold burns my skin. I look up and see the morose, gray sky of winter and feel the rain and ice; they startle me and they remind me where I am and when I am – and how many should-haves, would-haves, and could-haves it took to bring me to this place.

I’ve had that dream before. I’ve dreamed of epiphanies that never came. I’ve taken free rides for which I paid too dear a price. I’ve dreamed dreams that never came true. I’ve stood at the top of the world, and I paid for a ticket to the bottom of the world with sorrow, loss, desperation and tears.

I think now how far away from here the top of the world is. It’s hard for me to believe I was ever standing there. It is even harder to believe that I actually thought I ever belonged there.

I pull my sleeping bag up over my head to fend off the pellets of ice and cold rain. I pull my sleeping bag tight around me but it’s ripped in so many places that the world gets in anyway.

All this time I’ve been dreaming dreams that would never came true and wishing for epiphanies that never would come again.

I crawl out of my sleeping bag and stand in the icy rain. The pellets of ice bounce off my skin. I don’t want to fall asleep again. I don’t want to dream of that free breakfast at Epiphanies. It hurts to much to go there. It takes too much of my soul to dream it and then try to shake off the after-glow of that dream.

But that dream will come again. It always does.

I should know by now that nothing is ever really free. Everything has a price. Even epiphanies — even epiphanies that do not ever come again have a price. A staggering price that I could never afford. And nothing will ever be the same again.

I cry the tears I can I cannot afford to cry. And the tears will not stop this time. My tears turn icy on my cheeks. They are tears frozen in time, and frozen in place. And I, alone, in the rain think of an email from long ago. “An Epiphany” it was called. I’ll never forget as long as I live.

The icy pellets mix with rain and the world disappears into the darkness of dreams – dreams which never came true and epiphanies which will never come again.

I cry alone. I always do. I have a feeling that I always will.

The free breakfast at Epiphanies was never really free at all, was it?

Nothing ever is.