Kindness: the quality of being friendly, generous, and considerate So, there we were, my husband Douglas and I, in Chapters. That place where my handsome son, Fionn, always wants to go when we cut him off the computer gaming. (I won’t discuss how much money we spend on books for Fionn. “Think of it as a scholarship,” my bibliophile husband says. But that’s another blog!) Douglas and I migrated to the magazine shelves, so full of colour, allure, tiny promises. And glossy paper. Lots of shiny covers. I love shiny things. Magpie-like, I gathered a few choice, luxurious, perfect-bound baubles into my arms and went to perch on a nearby bench. But I kept walking because I wasn’t comfortable to take the only spot left, too close to a man I thought wasn’t quite right. “Seems a bit weird,” I thought to myself. Dressed, well, à la mode post-war Paris, say. A funnyish cap (yes, there is no such word as funnyish), a leather satchel, jeans and a shirt that had seen better days, the ensemble accented by a red wool vest. Thin, thin, thin. And drawing. He was sketching, whipping his black pen around the page as if conducting an orchestra. But then, a seat at the other end of the bench became available and I lit there, more comfortable with the space between us. My husband sauntered out of his view around a bookshelf and into mine, and started signalling with his hands, pointing at l’homme, then back to himself, making scribbling motions. “What?” He’s writing about you? How do you know?” I mouthed and then took a sideway glance without moving my head. “Oh,” I thought. “He’s drawing you,” and nodded in understanding. “Huh!” I thought, and delved back into my literary arts magazine, while Douglas wandered off. I didn’t notice the passage of time, but all of a sudden, l’homme was hovering like a hawk in front of me. He held out two sheets of paper. One was a black ink sketch of myself reading and the other of Douglas browsing the shelves. “Huh!” I thought again, studying the likenesses. “Not bad.” “I just ask two or three dollars,” he said, clearly not comfortable with his approach. “Oh,” I said, “No thanks,” and quickly dismissed him. I didn’t see it, but I swear I could hear his shoulders drop in defeat as he returned to his end of the bench. I sat for a moment and thought. “I have a pocket full of change, at least $6. Why am I being so uncharitable? The guy is not asking for a handout. He’s asking to be paid for some work, albeit unsolicited.” I turned and called over to him. “Excuse me. I’m sorry. I would like to buy those sketches,” I said as I raised my hip and dug for the change. He jumped up, alight with energy and happiness. We perused the sketches together. “Yep, no mistaking. That’s us. Could you have made us a little thinner, though?” I asked, not quite tongue-in-cheek. Sketches secured, we went back to our respective positions. Me, happy that I had saved myself from waking up in the middle of the night regretting an abrupt rejection of an gingerly outstretched hand. Him, happy he had made a sale and someone had appreciated his art. Douglas soon arrived, ready to leave, and I showed him the sketches. “Look, honey! I bought these sketches of us from that gentleman over there,” I said nodding in the direction of l’homme, who looked up, his face clear of creases. They started to chat while I packed up. “He’s a bit odd, don’t you think?” I whispered as we were leaving. “Well,” said Douglas,” he’s from Sarajevo. If you’d spent time in Sarajevo during a civil war like he has, you might be a bit odd too.” Point taken. Visit Mirko's website: http://www.mirkopocuca.com/index.php |
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The advantages of a trusting face and a bit of moxie
“Oh, oh! This is not good,” was my first thought. I was in a cool little restaurant/bar in Hull, all ready to have a nice little break from the brutal French language written “diagnostic” testing I had just undergone at Asticou, a training centre for federal public servants on the Quebec side. Le Cellier St-Jacques. The perfect place. Near empty joint, corner seat against a back wall of aged brick, techno music playing coolly in the background. “Wi fi?” I asked before I took a seat.” Yes,” said the owner who ushered me in. I had two hours to kill before the second part of the French test, the oral. And man, I needed a break, and some food! I knew before I sat my little butt down that I had forgotten my purse at home with my wallet and phone. Luckily I had had my blackberry and my government identification to get in the school’s door. I also remember asking my husband for some cash, because I never have any, which I whipped out of his hand as I rushed out the door earlier this morning I was sure I had a $20 bill in my pants pocket before I sat down and ordered a coffee. But, when looking at the menu prices, I instinctively reached to ensure that bill was there, only to find it wasn’t! I frantically searched through all my pockets, knapsack pouches—everywhere—at least three, maybe four times. Nothing but $1.50 in change and some lint from the bottom of my knapsack. Shit. I am starving! Haven’t eaten a thing today and now I’ll have to go through an afternoon of testing without any food? The hell with practicing my French. I got up and explained my predicament to the slightly tough-looking waitress. “I’m really sorry, but I forgot my purse at home (who the hell does that, anyway?) and thought I had $20 but can only find $1.50. Will that do for the coffee?” I asked, fully expecting a “don’t worry about it.” I didn’t get it. I got a “Je n’sais pas,” as she sauntered away, leaving me standing there. “Well, geez,” I thought to myself. “What are they going to do to me? Arrest me on the way out?” The nice man who had originally seen me in was sitting at the opposite end of the bar, engrossed in his own work. I walked up to him. “Hi, are you the owner?” Getting an affirmative nod of his head, I explained my predicament, asking if $1.50 would do for the coffee. “Not a problem,” he laughed with a wave of his hand. “It’s $2.50, but forget about it.” Relieved, I said “Thanks” and walked back to my seat with my stomach screaming, “FEED ME! FEED ME!” “Damn, I really need to eat,” I said to myself. And then, a brain wave! I appeared in front of him again. He looked reasonable. About 55, with white hair and clearly a seasoned restaurateur. “Look, I’m really hungry. I have to eat something. What about if I call my husband at home and get my credit card number? Could you use the number without the card?” I don’t think he blinked before he said, “Sure, we could try that.” I babbled on about checking the card before eating and he said no, that he would have to have a figure to input before charging the card. Did he have a wary eye? Was he looking me up and down mentally, hedging his bets on how this sad little saga would end? I called home. "Well, that must be embarrassing," my helpful husband opined. “Well, no,” I huffily told him. “I’m not embarrassed at all. I’m human, they make mistakes, and I’m friggin hungry. Gimme the number.” I got the number, repeating it three times to make sure I got it right. Menu swiftly put back in hand, I ordered. (No, not the filet mignon, just a Caesar salad, but with chicken. I needed some substance but I didn’t want to raise any alarm bells!) The salad was excellent. But then, the test. The billing-paying, that is (my French oral was coming up within a half hour). He arrived with the machine and a smile. I joked if it didn’t work, as an experienced dishwasher I could always tackle a dish or two. He slowly and carefully input the number and waited. A message popped up: Carte présente? Oui ou non. He pressed “non” before I could say anything and he handed over the terminal. But then, nothing. I suggested maybe he needed to say that the card was present (even though it was a big fat lie and I HATE lies!) We tried again, said “oui” to the card being on hand, and it worked! Except, then it asked for a “code,” as he put it. “Do you have the code?” he asked, with the smile of someone who had clearly been around the block a few times. Or, was I being paranoid? I don’t remember ever having to input a pin to use my credit card. So I looked at him, and, in my usual thinking-out-loud-blurting, said: “Ummm, I don’t remember having to do this before.” He didn’t bat an eyelash but I could hear the wheels in his head gear it up a notch: “Well, she looks honest. If she’s a con, she’s a damn good one and I’ve been around for a while.” “But I only ever use one, it should work,” I ventured, thinking shit, how cheesy am I going to look if this doesn't go through!? It did. The machine trilled and dinged success, and I was on my way, thanking him profusely. Whew! P.S. I never did find that $20 bill my husband handed me as I zoomed out the door that morning, my usual over-speedy self. Must have fallen out of my pocket for someone else to happily pick up. Which just goes to show you, what goes around comes around. That’s what I believe anyway! |
AuthorErin Scullion has been writing for a very long time and just keeps doing it. Archives
July 2014
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