Details

It’s always my first instinct to smile. Sometimes I don’t even notice that I’ve been smiling at a person until they smile back, and suddenly I realize how strange I look standing around smiling at strangers. It’s not that it’s an attribute I dislike, but I find that sometimes I wish that I could look a little less approachable.

Every time I step out of my car at any kind of convenience store I am, without fail, approached by any homeless person who may be outside. It doesn’t really bother me, but combined with my inability to lie or say no, I tend to end up spending a lot of extra money just giving it away. It’s really fine with me. I figure I probably wouldn’t end up spending it on anything more productive than they will, but I still often think to myself “why me?”

This morning on my way in, a man called out “Hey! Buy me a cup of coffee?” He said it like we were old friends, and I responded as such. “Of course! Just plain coffee?” He wanted an extra large, cream, two sugars. I liked that he said it as though he were ordering in a restaurant. It was refreshing to have someone ask for something inside instead of just plain money. It somehow made me feel much more useful.

There used to be a man outside WaWa that I’d see on a regular basis. I got used to the routine of leaving the store, handing him my change, and talking to him for a while. He had so many ideas and opinions about the political and social state of our country. He wore a button on his shirt that read “war is not the answer,” and it always made me smile.

He used to comment on my shoes a lot, these bright yellow high-tops that I’d wear around simply because they looked so ridiculous. He even once offered to steal me a pair of green ones from Famous Footwear, but I declined for obvious reasons. Still, I always think of him with a certain fondness for making such an offer. He was always really sweet like that, and I was glad that he stopped me to have those little chats. I liked that he felt like he could talk to me.

People always seem to feel that way, which I really genuinely love, despite the occasional person who relinquishes a little too much information. Those 11am drunks who start talking to me on the street about all the ways the world wronged them, those I could do without. Otherwise though, I take great pride in the stories I pick up along the way. It’s nice to have these little secrets in the back of my mind. It’s nice to know how a complete stranger takes his coffee, and I’ll always remember that, whether or not I ever end up buying him another cup. It’s nice to know these little details about people that make them who they are.

And isn’t that who we are? Are we really anything more than just a collection of specific details that come together to create our identity? I don’t know, perhaps I’m over simplifying us. I guess I just wouldn’t mind defining myself as the smiling girl with yellow high-tops who buys homeless men coffee, because I think really, that just says it all.