Just a Burger and Fries

He wouldn’t tell me his name. The shame of having to stand in front of a McDonald’s and beg for food compels a person to stay anonymous.

He was young, probably 20s, tall. Puffy winter coat, shorts, tennis shoes, ball cap. Not dirty or smelly. Wasn’t drunk. Wasn’t high. Not yet anyway.

His eyes shifted, not from nervousness, I think. Just embarrassment.

“Excuse me, sir? Would you happen to have a couple bucks so I could get something to eat?”

I hadn’t been working for the Rescue Mission that long, but I had enough experience by now to know what to do. Don’t give cash. Do give food. Don’t give it too quickly. Do use it to open a door for conversation. You never know where it might lead.

“Sure,” I said. “I’d be happy to buy you a meal inside. But before I do, tell me what you really need.” A burger and fries would stop the growling in his stomach, but for how long? It would take more than a McDonald’s dollar menu to put his life back together.

I probed gently with my repertoire of questions, trying to open him up. He slept on the streets in this part of town. Never been to the Mission. Was looking for work. Beyond that, he didn’t want to talk about.

Inside, he quietly ordered his food. “You sure that’s all you want?” I offered. Small burger, small fries. “Yeah, that’s fine,” he replied.

We chatted uncomfortably as we waited, until he excused himself. I folded the receipt in my hands and prayed for him.

I caught him in the corner of my eye. He reached into the trash and pulled out a used cup. He knew I saw him, but acted as if he didn’t. The place was too busy for anyone else to notice him walk to the soft drink dispenser and fill his cup for free.

This was act of a man fully accustomed to hunger and homelessness. He’d lost the dignity that kept him from digging through trash or drinking from a dirty cup. But he had enough pride to keep him from taking advantage of my generosity. Allowing me to buy his drink was more than he could bear.

His order came. I offered to stay with him while he ate. He preferred to eat alone. I could respect that. In a final attempt, I recounted my offer to help him find a place to stay and offered to buy a bus ticket to get to the Mission.

“No, thanks.”

“I know it’s hard, man. I’ve been around enough guys and heard their stories. Ya gotta get help though. When you’re ready, come down to the Mission. Here’s my card.”

He thanked me, truly grateful.

Walking home at dusk, I knew he’d be sleeping on the street that night. He’d probably find a way to get some money, then silence his inner demons with his addiction of choice, probably meth.

You can’t truly help a person until they truly want help. But it doesn’t free you from the responsibility to try.

He’ll hit bottom eventually. When he does, maybe he’ll remember that meal. Maybe he’ll call the number. I’ve heard enough stories to know that it does happen that way sometimes. I can only pray that it does.