text: I almost forgot about a young man outside of the grocery store. “Hey Buddy, do you have an extra quarter?” He shouted from across the parking lot. I knew this was coming by the way he rattled the coins in his Starbucks cup. He seemed like he meant the buddy part. I gave him a few pennies and a nickel from my pocket. Wait... This is my shot. My one opportunity. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. Do I hear Eminem? Can I be the hero? “Do you need any clothes?” I asked. “I have a bunch in the back of my car that I was going to bring to goodwill.” He knows I’m a good guy. His youthful face exploded with tremendous excitement. “Are you kidding me?” he stammered while staring through my soul. I was intimidated. Am I dumb? His composure degraded from an explosion of life to a crumbling soul. He broke down. He was already broken. Ashy fingers extended to his bony ankles revealing layer upon layer of dirty sweatpant, upon layer of torn sweatpant, upon layer of dirty torn sweatpant. “Do you have jeans?” he excitedly asked as we skipped side by side down the aisle of the parking lot. “What size are you? 33-44?” 44? What was he talking about? That look of life and enthrallment never left his eye. Have I even looked him in the eye? I look up searching for an applause from a nonexistent crowd in the parking lot. I think the guy with the beard who was fixing the shopping cart reservoir saw. I’m a hero. We arrive at the supply caravan. A dirty 2007 Pontiac G6 convertible coupe with a salvage title and a backseat overflowing with Goodwill goodies. It was sweet in college. “This one has some athletic gear!” I’m sure to let him know. “Here’s some sweaters in this bag, there’s Nike and everything!” He won’t like my pastel shorts from when I was paying for my friends. I am the great provider of this man’s needs and I am supplying everything that he is searching for. I’ve lost sight. I’ve forgotten about those tattered sweatpants. Did he call me “Buddy?” Whatever, I’m the man. Do you see all of the clothes in the backseat? I’m saving his life. “I’ll just take this one” he said while crouching his butt to his heels and elbows to knees with a hoodie masking his face, fingertips clutching a cardboard grocery bag with a fresh pair of size 33x34 black Express jeans folded on top of other garments. Those were sweet jeans. Oh shit. He needs those! I’m the fucking man. Time passes. More time passes. 45 minutes had passed? He’s still crouching between my Pontiac and another car parked slightly over the line. Can I be done saving your life now? “...... I needed you today.” “What was that?” Somehow shocked, I asked to reaffirm my heroism. Eyes peered from around the corner of a hoodie and a few layers of black dreadlocks. “I NEEDED YOU TODAY.” He ghasped and quickly hustled to collect himself. Exploding images intrude my brain. Dirty sweatpants. Torn scarf. Does he have a kid? He’s my age. “Thank you so much” he said as he gazed with eyes that were seeking permission to leave. “Take care.” Wait, did those words even leave my mouth? He trounced away. Finger tip-tapping side to side as if over a tiny fence as he sang a tune that I had never heard. Probably some of that 21 Savage or Lil Yachti. Who was this man singing in the parking lot? Why did he only take one bag? I WISH I GOT HIS NAME. I wish I got his name.