July 13, 2017
I see my mentor standing in front of a Chock Full ‘O Nuts on Lexington Avenue and 56th Street as expected. She is leaning up against the store front, the stock image of a homeless bag lady, complete with long shabby skirt over sweat pants, fuzzy hair, and a ratty tweed coat with burn holes on the sleeves. Her only bow to fashion is a pair of well worn black Converse sneakers and a faded NYC baseball cap, bill to the back. A sign at her feet reads, “Homeless veteran. Anything helps. God bless.” I toss a dollar in the basket and enter the coffee shop. I’ve had a late night and I need caffeine to jolt-start my day.
I grab a stool at the counter and reach for a folded New York Daily News left by a previous occupant. I’m just adding milk and sugar when Donka walks in, sign and basket in hand, looking a bit confused. She mutters to herself, looks wildly from side to side, coughs loudly, crosses herself and merges into the rush hour to-go line. I take a sip of my coffee and make a mental note.
Donka continues to mumble while she orders a bagel with a schmear and regular coffee to go. She maintains a confused look on her anxious face, and constantly looks around, turning her head erratically while holding the $20 bill in front of her bosom to make sure she is waited on. When her order comes, she takes time checking the bagel and making sure the coffee has cream and sugar. As the cashier becomes more restless to move her along, Donka reluctantly hands over the $20 and, in the process, knocks over the container of coffee. The cashier curses, grabs a rag and mops the counter, calling over her shoulder for another regular.
While the now flustered cashier is handing her change, Donka places her bagel into the large cloth bag she carries and withdraws a small but bulging coin purse. She looks surprised to find money there…. “Wait, wait…” she calls out in her accented voice to the cashier as she pockets the change, “I have correct amount here already. Give me back twenty, here is correct amount,” she shouts, then continues muttering as she laboriously counts out the $3.49. The cashier returns the $20 and scoops up the bills and coins that Donka has laid on the counter and places them into the register, eager to be done with this obvious nut job. Donka grabs her coffee and shuffles aside. The next customer steps forward, and the cashier visibly relaxes and turns her attention to this man who comes in daily and works just around the corner. A clean get-away.
Impressed, I finish my coffee, fold my newspaper under my arm, and exit onto 56th Street. The old lady just made $16.51. Not a lot of money, but not bad for 5 minutes of work. As I walk, I’m seeing the potential take; the world is filled with marks. Wherever I am, I can ply my trade. Donka was right: in a tight job market, this entry-level position sure beats a minimum wage job. It’s good to finally have some career goals, I think as I head for the newsstand on Madison.
© 2017 Joan Cichon All Rights Reserved
I see my mentor standing in front of a Chock Full ‘O Nuts on Lexington Avenue and 56th Street as expected. She is leaning up against the store front, the stock image of a homeless bag lady, complete with long shabby skirt over sweat pants, fuzzy hair, and a ratty tweed coat with burn holes on the sleeves. Her only bow to fashion is a pair of well worn black Converse sneakers and a faded NYC baseball cap, bill to the back. A sign at her feet reads, “Homeless veteran. Anything helps. God bless.” I toss a dollar in the basket and enter the coffee shop. I’ve had a late night and I need caffeine to jolt-start my day.
I grab a stool at the counter and reach for a folded New York Daily News left by a previous occupant. I’m just adding milk and sugar when Donka walks in, sign and basket in hand, looking a bit confused. She mutters to herself, looks wildly from side to side, coughs loudly, crosses herself and merges into the rush hour to-go line. I take a sip of my coffee and make a mental note.
Donka continues to mumble while she orders a bagel with a schmear and regular coffee to go. She maintains a confused look on her anxious face, and constantly looks around, turning her head erratically while holding the $20 bill in front of her bosom to make sure she is waited on. When her order comes, she takes time checking the bagel and making sure the coffee has cream and sugar. As the cashier becomes more restless to move her along, Donka reluctantly hands over the $20 and, in the process, knocks over the container of coffee. The cashier curses, grabs a rag and mops the counter, calling over her shoulder for another regular.
While the now flustered cashier is handing her change, Donka places her bagel into the large cloth bag she carries and withdraws a small but bulging coin purse. She looks surprised to find money there…. “Wait, wait…” she calls out in her accented voice to the cashier as she pockets the change, “I have correct amount here already. Give me back twenty, here is correct amount,” she shouts, then continues muttering as she laboriously counts out the $3.49. The cashier returns the $20 and scoops up the bills and coins that Donka has laid on the counter and places them into the register, eager to be done with this obvious nut job. Donka grabs her coffee and shuffles aside. The next customer steps forward, and the cashier visibly relaxes and turns her attention to this man who comes in daily and works just around the corner. A clean get-away.
Impressed, I finish my coffee, fold my newspaper under my arm, and exit onto 56th Street. The old lady just made $16.51. Not a lot of money, but not bad for 5 minutes of work. As I walk, I’m seeing the potential take; the world is filled with marks. Wherever I am, I can ply my trade. Donka was right: in a tight job market, this entry-level position sure beats a minimum wage job. It’s good to finally have some career goals, I think as I head for the newsstand on Madison.
© 2017 Joan Cichon All Rights Reserved
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