“Spare some change, miss?”
Isabela heard a deep voice. It came from what looked like a heap of garbage sprawled on the steps of the condemned Bank of Montreal building on the corner of Yonge and Queen Streets. She gave a cursory glance. It was a man.
On impulse, she walked closer to the curb, being careful not to step off the pavement onto the traffic. She looked away, ignoring the man, and quickened her steps. She glanced at the traffic light and saw that the Queen Street traffic was still on green. She could make it to the corner just in time for the Yonge traffic to go and she would cross the street. But guilt chewed at her conscience. She was brought up poor and her parents instilled in her a compassion towards those less fortunate than herself. She inwardly chastised herself then turned and walked towards him.
He wore layered clothing despite the humid July heat, the colours indiscernible from filth. His unshaven face was dirty. She looked at him full in the face. Beneath the brim of his muddied baseball cap, Isabela saw the man’s eyes. She was struck by their vivid blueness - blue as the ocean she had seen from the airplane during her many travels to Asia and Europe. They were the bluest blue eyes she had ever seen.
“What did you need the spare change for?” she asked. She reached down her suit pocket, pretending to fish out some change; but she guessed he probably knew it was just an act: there was no jingling sound of any spare change. The man propped himself up and sat at the very top of the stone steps.
“For breakfast, ma’am. I haven't eaten for two days,” he said. He returned her stare, a glazed, blank stare. She stood there for a long time in front of him, staring, hesitating. For some strange reason, she felt sympathy for him. The man and his blue eyes.
She felt a tinge of panic inside and thought about just giving the man a few quarters, as she mentally searched the inside pockets of her purse for change. But her feet seemed frozen on the pavement. She stood there gawking at the blueness of his eyes. Only the loud sound from the bell of a passing streetcar seemed to jolt her back to her senses. She said, “Look, I can't give you money, but I can buy you breakfast, if you like." She could not believe what she just said. I am being hypnotized, she thought.
He smiled; it was a mocking smile, she thought. “I know, ma’am, you don't trust me,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, at the same time appearing suspicious of the offer at hand. “I can’t blame you. Thank you anyway.”
“No, it’s principle,” she said, “If you’re hungry, I’ll give you food, but not money.”
He looked down at the pavement; the expression on his face changed to that of resignation. She couldn’t see his blue eyes. Then he looked up at her again, and in an almost inaudible voice, he said, “I don’t want to impose, ma’am; you must be on your way to work.”
She shook her head lightly. “No, I’m not from Toronto,” she lied. “I’m a tourist.” Then she said, “Your choice.”
She motioned to her left, at the rows of McDonald’s, Burger King and a small diner with a 24-hour neon sign still blinking and a blackboard outside its door advertising “pancakes” special. Across Queen Street, towards the south, Tim Horton’s and Taco Bell signs loomed prominently.
The man stood up, tentatively, all the while staring at her face, himself unbelieving. He was tall, towering above her; the lean shoulders hunched as if in total defeat of what fate had handed him. The dirty clothes hung from his body, frayed from being unwashed; as a repulsive smell emanated from his movement, Isabela took a couple of steps back.
The man took a few steps, blinking his blue eyes and shaking his head as if seeing daylight for the first time. “Pancakes,” he said in his deep, tired voice.
Isabela pointed to the bundle he was using as a pillow.
“What about your stuff?” she asked, concerned his meagre belongings might get lost.
Instead, he muttered, “Pancakes,” again and the glazed blue eyes were fixed on the blackboard in front of the diner up ahead. Without another word, they walked towards the diner. The man trailed behind her. She made sure she was at a safe distance to avoid the putrid smell that had now assaulted her nostrils and caused a throb in the spot above her eyebrows. Her stomach churned and, for a moment, she felt like throwing up and almost regretted her act of kindness.
“Not allowed! Not allowed here!” the oriental waiter protested, in a heavily accented tone, as he tried to shoo the vagrant away, like he was driving away a stray dog.
Isabela looked at the waiter, raised one hand to stop him and said, “He’s with me,” a tone of resolute defiance in her voice.
Two men, both wearing business suits, appeared behind them, wanting to get in. One muttered, “What the fuck!” but held off when Isabela looked back at them with one raised eyebrow. They left, laughing and muttering obscenities Isabela felt were directed at her.
The Korean waiter looked at her with astonished disapproval and muttered something in his language, something that sounded savage. He looked at Isabela from head to toe, surveyed her Donna Karan suit, the pearl choker, the big leather purse and white Keds running shoes. His unbelieving look seemed to tell her, “Surely you don’t mean that!” But she knew the look meant more than that. He was belittling her, probably thinking she’s some Filipina shit who couldn’t resist picking up a handsome beggar. She cursed the waiter in her head. An equally savage curse in her own language.
“Bad for business, see?” the waiter said as he motioned towards the direction of the two men.
She could almost feel the waiter’s disdain: her face turned red. She continued to stare at him. She resolved she would not back down. She noticed his nose twitched from the smell of her unlikely guest. Then, realizing she would not leave, the waiter stepped back and let them in. He walked up behind the counter, still muttering savage sounds.
The restaurant was empty. Isabela chose a table by the opened glass window -at least the smell of fumes from the passing cars would be a relief from the putrid smell of her guest; the smell of rancid grease that permeated the whole restaurant was already a blessing. She told Mr. Blue Eyes (for in her mind she decided to call him that) to sit down. Instead the man motioned for her to sit first, taking his dirty cap off his head, revealing unwashed, unkempt dark blonde hair, bowing his head in a gallant fashion, bending his body awkwardly. It was a sincere gesture. Chivalry’s not dead after all, she thought as she smiled at him and sat down. She handed him the laminated menu card which was propped on the table. His face brightened at seeing the sumptuous colourful pictures. A smile almost appeared at the corner of his mouth, the colour of his eyes now a more vivid blue.
Without looking at his host, Mr. Blue Eyes said, “I may not have this chance again, ma’am, but do you mind if I get the pancakes with sausage and eggs?” His fingers pointed at a glossy picture. The dirty, pallid face was for a brief while painted with excitement, like a child opening a most wanted gift on his birthday. His lips stretched into a smile, the sunken cheeks revealed a pair of dimples.
“Sure,” Isabela said, nodding. “Go ahead.”
The man motioned to the waiter who deliberately tried to ignore him. Isabela then raised her one arm and flicked her fingers and said, “Mister!” raising her voice enough for the man to hear.
The waiter, making no effort to disguise his annoyance, walked up to the table.
“What!” It was a rude interjection rather than a question. Ignoring this show of rudeness, Mr. Blue Eyes ordered the pancakes combo and coffee. He ordered coffee for Isabela but she politely declined, amused at this show of gallantry but at the same time preoccupied with anger at the waiter’s attitude. She turned to the waiter and, in a quiet, firm voice, told him to give her the bill right away. Still mumbling with disgust, the waiter walked back behind the counter, angrily punched the order on an unseen machine then disappeared through the kitchen door.
“What is your name?” she asked, trying to make her voice sound kinder, friendlier.
He did not answer. He sat quietly, his head slightly bowed, stealing a furtive glance at her face. He was embarrassed and was visibly more uncomfortable than Isabela. Then he said, “Them people must be mocking you.” He motioned his hand towards the counter. He continued, “And thinking bad things about you bringing me here...” his voice trailed, “A bum, smelling like a pig.”
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled, but he didn’t see as he lowered his gaze down. For a while, they both sat down facing each other in awkward silence.
“What happened to you?” she asked in an attempt at small talk. When he did not answer, she apologized. He looked out into the street seeming to count passers-by and cars. His eyes had turned a darker shade of blue, like the colour of a gathering storm on the high seas. She thought he must have been offended by the question. She chastised herself: what right did she have asking him about his predicament just because she was buying his breakfast?
“I'm sorry,” she said. He didn't say anything.
The food arrived. He drank his coffee in one gulp and asked for a refill then ravenously attacked his pancakes. For a moment, Isabela was afraid that he would choke but he just swallowed and gulped. Nothing happened. She sat there, mesmerized by the man’s blue eyes. She noticed his lean hands, the long bony fingers which probably did not know manual work now dirty, the long uncut fingernails black underneath, protruding from a pair of dirty, shorn, knitted gloves. She surveyed his dirty face and guessed that it must have been days since he last shaved.
Halfway through his breakfast, he said, “Cocaine.”
Isabela strained to hear him between his chewing and the noise coming from a passing Fedex delivery truck.
“Crack cocaine. That's what happened to me,” he said again. “And booze!”
He was adept at using knife and fork, Isabela observed. She guessed that he must have been brought up properly, had good education. She pictured him in an expensive car, with beautiful women. She pictured him neat and trimmed and clean, in a suit, lounging in a large well-furnished home. She pictured him not as he appeared. Then after a long silence, he spoke again.
“I used to have a family, a big home, a nice car, a good job. I lost them all because of cocaine. I sold my soul for cocaine. I didn't care if I didn't eat; any money I could get my hands on, I spent on cocaine.” He paused. He contemplated one of the sausages before cutting it into four pieces and forked one piece into his mouth.
“And alcohol,” he continued, pouring syrup on his last pancake. “But I prefer my life now, a bum. If there is drugs, then so be it. If not, it really doesn't matter.” He slowly placed his fork down as he chewed the piece of sausage. He looked away.
His face betrayed emotions of sadness and regret. His gaze lingered outside into the street. He furrowed his eyebrows and shook his head. Isabela thought she saw a glint in his blue eyes: he was fighting tears. She followed his gaze. At the bus stop, a man, probably in his thirties, dressed in a yellow golf shirt and neatly pressed khaki pants held a thin briefcase and a lunch bag in one hand; the other hand held the tiny hand of a small boy, no more than eight years old: father and son, engaged in casual conversation. Then, almost abruptly, Mr. Blue Eyes grabbed his fork and continued to eat his food in silence, more deliberate now, as if trying to memorize how each bite of food tasted, or maybe, Isabela decided, trying to purge his mind of the poignant memories spurred by the scene outside.
When he finished, the plate was wiped clean: no crumbs, no spills, no leftovers. He was really hungry, Isabela thought. He drank the rest of his coffee without so much as looking at her. When he finished, he sat quietly for a while, then started to fidget with his feet underneath the table. She sensed his uneasiness and Isabela took this as a signal to leave. She stood up, walked to the counter, grabbed a cello-wrapped cinnamon bun, waving it to an older oriental woman crouched unseen behind the counter. She heard the woman say something in the same language as the waiter’s and the waiter appeared from the kitchen. She asked for the bill by making an imaginary rectangle in the air with her fingers. She walked back to the table and gave the cinnamon bun to Mr. Blue Eyes, placing it on the table in front of him.
She smiled and said, “Have a nice day.” Before he could say anything, she turned away and walked back to the counter.
She paid the waiter, telling him to keep the several cents change. The waiter said something under his breath that she strained to understand: “Why a nice woman like you do this?” She glared at him. It was her turn to look at the waiter with disdain. She fought hard within her to ignore the question and, without saying anything, left the restaurant. But inside her, she asked herself the same question. Was it pure pity or curiousness? Pity wasn’t it. Maybe she’s curious. She quietly charged it to her religious upbringing: help the poor. But she passed by many other beggars every morning, everyday, everywhere and she never as much gave them anything. “Why don’t you get a job, you idiot!” sometimes she would tell a what looked like an able-bodied person. But Mr. Blue Eyes. She couldn’t resist those blue eyes.
Outside, in the street, the still, humid air seemed a precursor to another scorching day. She sensed someone walking closely behind her: it was Mr. Blue Eyes. She quickened her steps but he had longer strides and as he went past her, he walked backwards so that he was facing her. He smiled and said, “Thank you.” Isabela looked at him and his blue eyes one last time and smiled at him, then, aware of strangers’ eyes with questioning looks, nodded in dismissal. He smiled back. In a moment, the man with very blue eyes was gone.
At the corner of Yonge and Queen, as she stopped and waited for the lights to turn green, she looked up at the hazy blue sky, a ray of dull morning sunlight that shone between the tall buildings struck her eyes. She removed her blazer as she felt sweat from the back of her neck trickling down her spine and forming beads on her forehead. The lights had turned green and a throng of people from the other side started to cross. She slung her blazer across one shoulder and without looking back, she met the throng head on and crossed Queen Street. She walked past an old man holding a sign that read “Homeless Viet Nam Vet” begging for spare change. A few yards farther, a young couple with green spiked hair huddled together underneath a blue blanket and asked her for a dollar. Isabela twisted her lips in disgust. She kept walking.
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