I saw him enter after replenishing the coffee station, apprehensive, like he expected to be booted out before he got passed the doorway. His clothing were torn, his shoes were wearing off, and his face showed more than just fatigue.
He said, “Excuse me, ma’am,” avoiding my gaze. Do you have extra change? Just enough to eat?”
I was used to street people begging for money. Some were merely unlucky, while others were excessively dependent. I had been burned before—given food just to see it sold. I posed the familiar inquiry.
“Why are you unemployed?” My voice was direct, not nasty. Nothing’s free to me, you know.”
Sighed, shoulders sagging. “I have many felonies. No employer will hire me. So I steal, beg, or do everything I can to survive.”
I regarded him. His voice was honest, without self-pity or rage, like someone who has nothing to lose.
A thought came to me.
That day, my café was understaffed. One of my dishwashers called in sick, leaving a mountain of filthy plates in the kitchen after the morning rush. I could have fed him and sent him away. Instead, I questioned, “Do you want to work?”
Head snapped up. “What?”
“I have a job for you,” I said. “Two hours. I’ll pay you to clean the rear. You can buy any food with that money.”
I saw hope in his eyes for the first time since he entered, not exhaustion.
“I’ll do anything,” he said.
He worked harder than anyone I’d seen when I gave him an apron and let him into the kitchen. He swept floors carefully, scrubbed dishes quickly, and took out the garbage without being asked. His complaint was nonexistent. He kept going.
After two hours, I paid him. I anticipated him to take the money and go to a convenience or booze store. However, he did something that nearly made me cry.
He went to the counter and ordered from my café.
“You don’t have to spend your money here,” I said. “There are cheaper places.”
Shaking his head. I want to buy my own food. It feels good.”
I discounted him.
That was two weeks ago.
He has arrived at my café every morning on schedule since then. He asks to help even when I don’t have shifts. He greets customers, cleans tables, and washes dishes. He’s still homeless, but his earnings have let him buy new clothes, get a haircut, and regain his dignity.
He was sitting on the bench outside marveling at the city lights one evening as I locked up the café. I sat next him.
“You ever consider something permanent?” I requested.
He laughed softly. “Every day. Who’ll hire one like me? My history follows me everywhere.”
I pondered that. What if you stayed?
His eyes grew. You mean—working here? Full-time?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “You proved yourself. You appear. You labor. That’s more than I can say for many prior hires. For a fresh start, why not here?
He looked away, blinking quickly to control his feelings.
“I don’t know what to say,” he muttered.
Say yes.”
He did.
After three months, he’s my most reliable worker. Customers love him, staff appreciate him, and—most importantly—he believes in himself again. His first income went toward a little rental room deposit. He no longer sleeps homeless.
He changed his life, not me. He only needed a chance.
So often, we evaluate people by their location without questioning how they got there. One person believing in you might sometimes be enough.
Be the change to see the world change.
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