“Could I ask you for a favor?”
This type of question can be answered in a plethora of possibilities. I have heard someone reply with only one word because, to them, taking a moment to put another’s feelings into account would waste valuable time. Others have decided to respond with another question, forcing the delay of what may or may not occur. I tend to feel the little hairs on my back stand up when someone turns to me and requests an answer to this unbelievably limitless question. However, on an exceptionally frigid January evening, I decided to respond to this question with a kindhearted two words “Of course.”
I had participated in midnight runs with my church before. A large group from the Methodist faith across Westchester County signs up many months in advance because what we do takes much preparation. We bring clothing, food, first aid kits, and any other supplies needed to the homeless. Some of the participants handle the donations, some organize these donations into individual groups, then into bins, and these bins go into the travelers cars. Travelers’ are the ones who bring the supplies to the homeless. The third time I signed up to be a traveler, I was placed in Group Four. About five cars were placed into about six groups; over a hundred bins of supplies are given to those who need it more than most can imagine. We left the Armonk United Methodist Church a few minutes after midnight. Each group was given a list of six or seven stops, and these addresses were given out in homeless shelters and passed around through the power of voice. I was in charge of men’s pants, a total of three boxes that contained a variety of khakis, slacks, and jeans.
As we approached our third stop, my eyes were drawn to the large group of men waiting for us. This was the largest group I had ever seen, and I realized we were running low on the sizes that were most needed, anything from a thirty-six to a forty-two. Half an hour later and eleven pants given away, I jumped out of the back of the pickup truck and walked over to a group of three men enjoying their hot coffee. I realized then, not only was I giving a variety of people necessities, shoes without holes, a jacket with a warm lining, a pair of socks that would change a life by making it just a little less painful, I was giving them what every living creature not only needs, but craves. I was allowing people, real living people, to feel human by acknowledging their existence and sharing a simple conversation with them. These people have been ignored by so much of society that it has caused them to feel invisible. For many months last year I wanted to be indistinguishable, nothing more than a wall, to keep people away, but I love talking. I also find the ability of words to be limitless, and if I could change someone’s outlook on themselves, just by exchanging a few sentences, then what else could I do with the power of words?
On a bitter January night, we could all hear the last drops from the rain. We could all smell the mixture of smog and variety of city aroma’s beginning to form; and I was well aware of the sight before my eyes. It was the faith of these three men and the hope that tomorrow would be a better day. I started with a simple “Hello.” Twenty five minutes later, Carl, Eddie, and James had all told me their stories, and I had shared mine. Carl was one of the funniest men I had ever met, and he reigned from Minnesota. The forty seven year old Eddie had never left New York City; he stated simply, “Why leave the Big Apple, I’d eat an apple everyday if I could; there’s no reason to abandon it out of curiosity.” I found his thought process so frank that he became a character in my second novel. James, the last of the three to share his story said, “My eyes don’t see so good, but they’ve seen a lot of the bad in this world and I’m happy to see some good for once.” Little did I know, he was talking about me. Carl explained this to me after I carried the sense of confusion in my speech for more than a few minutes. I was informed by him that James was describing the happiness he saw in me.
“Could I ask you for a favor?”
This is what I heard after our pastor told us to begin wrapping it up, so we could reach the next destination on time. I turned to James and said, “Of course.”
The next few words were unexpected to say the least, but they asked me to perform the greatest thing I was capable of. James cleared his throat and asked, “Could I have a hug?” I nodded, understanding at that moment that words, my personal fairy dust, the closest thing to magic I have ever known were not needed. Before I left he tapped my shoulder, smiled, and said, “Thank you for my new khakis.” I laughed and we drove away.
I have walked a treacherous path during my years of life and sounds have been imprinted in my memory. The beeping of my brother’s heart monitor, the expected voice of a doctor, calm with a hint of practice, saying, “We are going to try another round of radiation,” and my own heavy breathing as I walked away from people whom I love more than they know. I will never be able to forget these sounds, but nothing is worse than the silence, the lack of any indication that you are there, and that sound is what Carl, Eddie, and James heard every day.
Two months later I heard James’s feet as he approached the pickup truck. Immediately, my mind flashed back to the instance I thanked James, unable to express my true gratitude that he found anything positive in me, a simple messenger. I had delivered a gift I had never realized was so dire to life, and these three men had given me a gift; they allowed me to see that my imperfections are not the only pieces of me that are exposed to the world. As my mind flooded back to reality, I noticed James standing at the front of the line, waiting for me, the messenger, to deliver our donations. He stood there and I asked, “Could I get you a pair of khakis in a size thirty eight?”
You made it very fluent and very touching. This is the kind of thing that happens to only a few people; that life changing perspective. This is the kind of thing you can read and feel a difference. 
