“There were 302 people in the town I lived in when I was four years old. I’m pretty sure when I left at 17, there were 300,” he said.
I laughed. He didn’t.
“Sorry, I thought you were trying to be funny,” I said.
“I was trying to tell you the truth. I guess the truth can be funny too, at times, but not much in that town made me laugh,” he said. “Most of the laughing in that town was done at my expense.”
“Your expense?” I asked.
“Where I grew up, kindergarten lasted all day. I’d walk everywhere, didn’t matter that I was only five — I was taller than some second graders,” he said.
I looked at him sitting across from me. We were both waiting for the holiday food boxes to be packed so we could deliver them to homebound residents. It was my first time volunteering at the center, but the woman in charge knew his name — Jesse.
Jesse’s jeans were faded, more from fashion than wear. He wore hiking boots, unblemished. The cable-knit burnt orange sweater he wore exposed his freckles interred in wrinkles; his eyes were barely a shade darker than his denim. His hands and feet were large, and although he was tall, he was also slender.
He gave me a nod before he continued. “I walked to school until I graduated. I’d also walk to the baker, Mr. Barnell, who would give me a slice of fresh bread every day without fail, and, on Fridays, I would go out of my way to the dime store because the checker, Ms. Marian, thought I was cute… she’d give me butterscotch candy,” he said. “I always got home late on Fridays, but I knew I could get away with it because Mom would start her weekend drinking Thursday night.”
I wasn’t sure what part of his story he wanted me to comment on, if any, so I stayed quiet, returning the nod he gave me earlier.
“I still like butterscotch candy,” he chuckled. “I used to dream… maybe more like pray… that Barnell and Marian would one day get married and adopt me. That never happened, but they did their best, I think, to love me. I’m guessing they knew who my mom was… most people did. I was the only idiot that didn’t really know who she was… until the day I did.”
“Who was she? Your mom, that is?” I asked.
“Beautiful. She had eyes that would make you believe everything she said — those blue eyes would sink you deep into her sob stories — you’d be begging to help her before she was done.”
“Sob stories?” I asked.
“Yeah, and she had plenty of them, most of which were true. She became pregnant as a teen but never knew who the father was. She raised me on handouts and put-outs,” Jesse said, pausing, “if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do,” I said.
“She would eventually get her GED and her first of many DUIs and abusive boyfriends. The men she brought home would either ignore me, hate me, or like me a little too much.”
When he spoke, his tone was flat, like he was reading a boring story that he didn’t care how it ended… he just wanted it to end.
“She spent most her money on booze, bras, and makeup,” he said. “In junior high, I ended up getting a job washing dishes and tables at the pizza parlor. They paid me in cash and pizza.”
The woman in charge of the holiday food delivery program came out of the kitchen, called his name, and waved at me to get up. “Jesse, you all come on now. The boxes are ready. Address lists are right here with your name on it,” she said, pointing to a table. “Thank you for being here today. Much appreciated.”
We stood up, and I followed Jesse into the commercial kitchen, where brown boxes were stacked like Legos.
“How many do you deliver?” I asked him.
“17 each year. Always 17. One for every year I was with my mom,” he said.
“What happened to your mom?” I asked, immediately regretting the question.
“She went out to buy groceries, taking all the money from the coffee can, promising me we would finally have a real Christmas dinner. She wanted to make me something special for doing so well in school and making plans to leave on scholarship to become an accountant.”
“Did you become an accountant?” I asked.
He smiled. “I most certainly did.”
“Did your mom fix you Christmas dinner? How was it?” I asked.
“No. No, she didn’t. I did as she asked before she left and set the table, even found two used birthday candles that I placed in our kitchen sponge to create a ‘fancy’ centerpiece,” he said with a pang of embarrassment and sadness.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I sat at the table until the Christmas lights from the neighbor’s house came on and shone through the windows. Days came and left. I worked and waited until I finally convinced myself what I already knew: she had split.”
He started filling boxes into a cart to take to his car. I did the same.
“Eventually, I packed up and left,” he said, holding the door open for me.
Once outside, I saw the Christmas decorations around the neighboring homes in a different light.
He helped me load up my car, returned my cart, and wished me a Merry Christmas. I watched him go to his vehicle, which I was pleased to see was much nicer than mine. He paused before putting the last box into his car, patting the top, and closing the trunk.
I volunteered that year because I wanted to help others. I had the time as I had no family nearby to visit. In truth, I was feeling a little sorry for myself and a little lonely. But as I started driving, I couldn’t help but picture Jesse sitting alone at that table, and it made each box delivery something more than just assisting others to have food for the holidays… it became an intentional visit to see someone, love someone, and be truly present… even if for a few minutes.
To this day, I remember that Christmas fondly, and what Jesse helped me to remember: “And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love” 1 Corinthians 13:13.
This column was initially published by CherryRoad Media. For more inspirational articles, follow ©Tiffany Kaye Chartier.