My bum again

Before I lived in Durham, I would get lost on the way downtown. Once inside, it would inevitably spit me out the wrong way on 85. On more than one occasion I wound up in Hillsborough. I'm tempted to make a reference to the third Pirates movie here, but I'll refrain. While I'm there though, one second to confess that I found their take on the underworld utterly fascinating. If you stop reading here I'll understand.

Now part 3 of this saga will conclude with tales of crazies where I live, but for now we're sticking to Broad Street. I have an image burned into my mind of a man walking in circles between two bushes next to Whole Foods. This is a pretty major thoroughfare we're talking about, and this guy was quite literally bedding in their accents. He wasn't that well concealed (unlike Graah Plate), produced from the back of his drawstring pants a bottle in a paper bag. I hesitate to imagine how it remained perched there until business time. Without tightening his sweats, he squatted and coveted the bottle like a mother bird. He spotted me staring - I was stopping traffic - and still I felt like I was intruding.

Before I was able to establish that our store is not a shelter, the local flavor introduced themselves. The night before opening a couple months ago, a tall black male greeted us as "slim." Slim struck up a conversation about his mother that I barely understood. He then attempted the classic change for a larger bill scam. He proffered a handful of filthy, unrecognizable coins for a dollar. In his wide, withered hand he began to sort them and count unintelligibly before we (truthfully, for once) claimed we didn't have any cash. Slim insisted he wasn't asking for a hand-out, but only for change. Again we refused. The coins disappeared into a fold in his pants, and he extended his hand with purpose amongst us. My father took it and was shaken with vigor. Slim disappeared into the twilight, and I haven't seen him since.

The following day, opening, several employees were hanging around checking things out or tying up loose ends. There weren't many customers (we still sort of looked under construction). Rochelle was out front managing the plants when a short, rotund white male in his... 50s? approached. I couldn't hear the interaction well; she ushered him inside with promises of fresh baked goods. Even at that time, when the layout wasn't obvious, customers approached the register (especially since I stand there) instead of the service counter. There were tall boxes at that side of the counter, so he had to be forward to get as far around as he did. Anyway the logistics aren't that important except that I didn't have to be close to notice his smell. Nick, who was in the opposite corner on the stage perked up at the aroma like his bum-sense was tingling. Something sure was tingling. His scent had matured in the summer sun, and one could actually distinguish sweat from what was undoubtedly originating from his shirt. The shirt was stained... like sweat stains... but they weren't from sweat unless he had some bizarre seepage problem. I will reproduce a condensed version of the conversation (I apologize in advance for attempting dialect), since some of his queries were not the sort that had answers, such as his opening:

bum: "Been walkin' five miles already today, y'know?"

me: "Sure, what can I do for you?"

bum: "I need somethin' ta eat."

me: "Okay, well we have small pastries and such" [I indicated the bake case, which he ignored]

bum: "You got no sandwiches or taters or nothin'? Whatchoo got for me to eat?"

[I concluded firmly at this point that he wasn't intending to pay for anything]

me: "We have small pastries, but nothing to give away. We've only just opened."

Rochelle, I think it was, interjected: "We'll have more in the future." I believe this to have been a mistake.

bum, with growing agitation: "You ain't got nothin' ta eat? Where you get somethin' ta eat around here?"

me: "There's uh... there's a grocery store up the-"

bum: "Grosshry store! I don't have any money! I'm lookin' for somethin' ta eat!"

His emphasis on that word made me wonder... did he think we misunderstood him?

me: "Sorry, I don't know. We just opened up here."

bum: "You ain't got nooo sandwiches. You got pertaters?"

me: "Potatoes? No. Nothing like that."

bum: "What about that one?"

me: "That what? The muffins?"

bum: "No, that right there [pointing at the counter], that potato right there!"

me: "No potatoes, I don't have any potatoes. This? Do you mean this?"

In disbelief I held up a squat cup with a latte, recently produced by Stephanie during her training.

bum: "Yeah, that potato right there."

me: "This is a latte... a... a coffee drink."

bum: "Coffee? I don't need nothin' ta drink."

me: "Well this is a coffee. This is a coffee shop."

He started to walk toward the door, and Rochelle directed him.

bum: "Where's a guy get somethin' ta eat around here!"

Rochelle: "There's another cafe down the street [they were closed - we're not evil]. Another coffee shop."

bum: "I don't need no coffee, I need somethin' ta eat, E-A-T eat!

Yes, he spelled it out for us. After he left that day I endeavored to call him "Potatoes," but I didn't see him except in passing. He's worn the same filthy blue shirt, and he's always travelling North on Broad. He's lost some weight, for sure. I haven't seen him in a month or so. Maybe he found his potatoes...

Since this is running long, I'll just tell about one last bum, my bum. When he first walked in, the second day of business, I called Slim to mind. This guy is a little younger than Slim I believe, though he has told me different ages from time to time (from 30s to 50s). He was the hardest to understand of the bunch, but only because he mumbles. Whenever he wants to get something across, he can do so emphatically. He walked in with purpose that first time, scoped out the customers sitting with their computers, and chose one [now] regular to join at his table. I could tell by the look on this guy's face that he hadn't been waiting for anyone, so I called out asking if he knew the gentleman who had joined him. As the customer shook his head subtly, our guest kept his gaze transfixed without acknowledging me. I had to address him directly. Had I asked him not to come back right then, I might have avoided the difficulty that followed. Instead I tried to play it nice & it bit me in the ass.

I saw him once every few days at varying times. He would often ask to use the phone, go to the restroom for long periods, complain about the temperature of the drinking water, and mutter about his daughter to anyone who would (half) listen. His trick to try to get something out of me was to tell me he was diabetic, information which he also offered readily. Finally I produced an ancient block of crumb cake from the back that he was quick to complain about. Beggars can be, as you may well know, quite choosy. When this effort was not concluded to his satisfaction, he on a later occasion bothered me relentlessly while I had a trainee. He tried to take a chocolate ball, and I informed him it would be fifty cents. Christina promptly rang it up on the register like the trooper that she is.
"I can't have this?"
"They're fifty cents."
"Man I'm a diabetic."
"Sorry, they're fifty cents."
"I ain't got fifty cents."
"I'm sorry then."
He tossed the ball into the basket and exclaimed, "Maaan, you are tight. Tight, tight, tight!" Hence his new nickname, Triple T. After that, coupled with the frequent harassment of one of my female coworkers, I had to ask him three separate times not to come back.

So what makes him my bum instead of just any old bum? Well I kept seeing him while I was out downtown. After I'd been warned by a police officer that he would steal things, I ran into him at the Federal. He sat at the bar and asked each customer one by one for... I'm not sure. I presume drinks, but he may have just been asking for money. I went up to the opposite end of the bar to warn the bartender, but in doing so I'd been spotted. I tried to ignore him, but he called me out from across the bar repeatedly until I turned and managed a wry smile. I don't remember how I got him to leave us alone, but I'm sure it required persistent ignoring across the board.

Now, when I see Triple T coming I treat him just like family - I hide.