This is something that just happened, and I feel that I need to get it down in words while it's still fresh on my mind.

I was reading a new book, which is a thing to note because I haven't read a new one in awhile. I forget how quickly I get sucked in and lose myself. So when the older, black woman with a wild puff of tumbleweed for hair and the uneven row of teeth steps into the store, it was already jarring to begin with.

She said something, and I couldn't hear it.

"May I help you with something ma'am?"

She spoke louder, and I could see the watery, blood shot eyes. The dried and cracked places where tears had dried off the skin.

"Can... can I hug you?"

To my own small shame, I pretended that I didn't hear her the first time. I asked again, what could I help her out with on this day at the smoke shop? She repeated what she'd said.

"Can I just hug you. Can I get a..."

Something kinda struck in me. She had a problem, but I couldn't say what it was. I didn't try to even guess as I stood and walked across the store to embrace this woman I'd never seen before. She was unwashed, and smelled like cigarette smoke. It still clings to my hoodie like aftershave.

But it didn't matter in that moment. We stood there for a few seconds, an awkward formal hug, until she buried her face in my chest and began to cry. And that's when I knew how bad it was. I wrapped one arm around her shoulders and then rubbed her back, the back of her head, over that unwashed, almost balding puft of a hair style. This wasn't the first time I'd comforted someone. But the first time I'd comforted a stranger. I just treated it the same, though. I embraced her fully, not in that shitty way when you don't want to touch or be touched. I made a hushing noise and whispered that it would all be okay as we rocked back and forth between the tables.

"It'll be okay," was what I said, over and over.

"I-I'm so sorry."

"It's okay."

"No... no one wants to help me," she said, sobbing again, and I knew that she was there to beg. This was not some magical moment where my kindness would be just what this person needed at this time to turn everything around. She was ashamed. Deeply ashamed and that's a special kind of pain that I knew well.

"We all need help," I said, "But it'll all be okay... These things happen. The world moves forward with it."

She nodded a bit, and we stood for another few seconds as I waited for her to ask what she had walked in for. Maybe she'd needed a hug--but that wasn't what she'd come in for. An alcoholic goes to the bar to see friends, but it's really about the drink. An addict says he likes the crowd and people in the smoke circle, but he knows that it's all about the puff-puff-pass or whatever drug.

I am the smokes shop worker, after all. I really do know better. Yes, this oil burner is for your cousin, and certainly not for your crystal in a bag. This aromatic therapy makes the room smell nice, and it's not to replace the grass habit your probation won't allow. Kratom is good--and not just a replacement for when the doctor won't write you any hydrocodone.

I don't judge, and when I do it's only a reflex. Perfection is a laughable term, and I'll save the harshest judgment for myself.

"I just.. I just need a few dollars to get the Citibus back home.. I just wanna go home."

I nodded, my heart breaking a bit in the small reality that I certainly had no money to give her. I didn't want to tell her that, though. She'd probably heard every No there was to hear. At the very least, she deserved something as convincing as the embrace.

"I'll see what I can do," is what I said.

I walked behind the counter and checked every pocket of my jacket. I grabbed my bag and dug through every zipper and hidden corner. All the while, through the tears she had left on her face, she promised to bring me ten tomorrow to make up for it.

I shook my head and told her that it wouldn't be necessary, as I did not have any of the money I'd hope to have on me. She gave me a forlorn look. One that wasn't sure if she could trust me, while sadly realizing that she had no right to take me for anything other than my word. This was the double-edged mentality that every beggar had to grapple with. This was what happened when the substance was stronger than your self respect. It multiplies into a shame that's always behind the eyes.

"I can help you out with anything else though. A drink maybe. Candy bars or chips," I said, waving to the said items.

"... Do y'all sell cigarettes?"

I nodded, but she knew. They were right there and would easily cost five or six times the one dollar candy and drinks I was offering her.

"Can I get some Malboros....just those there... if you can...."

She pronounced it mall-berries, and I agreed and placed it on my account on the computer. She placed them in her pocket, and she thanked me, saying that she would bring it back to me tomorrow. Without asking when I worked. Or even if I worked.

But when I said, "No, no you don't have to. This is me helping you," I meant it. Even if she did come back waving the ten tomorrow, I'd shake my head.

Her eyes watered over a five dollar pack of cigarettes.

"You're so kind."

I shook my head.

"I just do what I do."

"So many people are mean... they say bad things... they don't like me."

"I'm just being nice because everyone deserves it. You deserve it."

I could see a real pain in her eyes give way to an embarrassed smile. Her cracked, dried skin moved like scaled, but even despite the uneven teeth--it was a real smile. A nice one too. I told her so, and just shook her head.

"Oh don't... People make funna me... Say I got big nigguh lips... I'm ugly... No hair...."

"Look at my lips. These are my momma's lips," I said. Which was the truth. "Ain't nothing wrong with that. You're beautiful, and it's a beautiful day. So smile." She did, and left, grasping my hand with a final thank you. And that was it. The store was empty, and stayed empty for another hour as I wrote this.

I feel winded.

I usually do after witnessing the extremes of humanity.
My hoodie still smells of cigarettes and dirt.

~RDS