You Don't Know Jack

  I walked down the cold, concrete street quickly, the stress of another day at work still resting on my tired bones. The wind whipped with a chilly autumn bite and dug deep through my coat. Cars flew past on the road, and people hurried about on the sidewalks. The sky was as gray as the ground, and as soulless as the rest of the cold city blocks.
  I turned off the main thoroughfare to head down a smaller side street, hoping to avoid the traffic of the main roads. I pulled my cap down lower and huddled myself into my old coat even more as another blast of nippy air flew down the street. I was in a hurry as much as anyone else, and eager to get home and out of the bitter wind.
  I trudged forward quickly, my mind moving as quickly and as numb as my legs as they trudged forward, step after step, through the cold city.
 “A dollar for the poor?” The voice rasped out as I sped by.
  I stopped quickly when I realized the raggedy old man was talking to me.
  I turned around quickly and looked him up and down.
  The man was filthy. From head to toe, he was covered in dirt and grime. His beard was long and scruffy, looking more like a great gray weed hanging from his chin and covering the bottom half of his face. He wore a worn and battered hat on his head, which barely covered his cold red ears. His long, greasy silver hair fell to past his shoulders in unkempt curls. His eyes were deep sunken, and a dulled color of blue, made even duller by the reflected bits of gray concrete I could see in his eyes. His teeth were yellowed and dirty, and even from a distance of a few feet I could smell the alcohol on his breath and in his clothes.
  I almost laughed.
  The man was ridiculous. He could be at the shelter, being fed and kept warm. He could be at the homeless dinner event that was happening down town. He could be anywhere but here.
  And here he was.
  Begging for money.
  His plea for a dollar and the fact that he was here told me he only wanted more money for one of the things a shelter wouldn’t provide. Alcohol.
  “Go get a job, like the rest of us.” I said, my voice harsh and hard.
  I turned up my collar and turned around, starting to walk off and head on through the grayness of the city blocks.
  “I don’t blame you,” He sighed.
  Something about his lonely, rasping voice stopped me in my tracks.
  “I know what you think… I’d just spend your money, to buy another drink,” his voice had a gravelling, baritone quality to it that made every word he spoke sound sad and almost musical.
  I was turned fully around now, and staring at the man.
  He wasn’t looking at me anymore though. His eyes glassy and he stared at the ground, lost in thoughts.
  “You don’t know Jack, son.”
  I could see he was fully lost in memories, so I approached him slowly. When I was a few steps away, he became aware of my presence again and looked at me with his sad, dull eyes.
  “Double shot. Eighty proof. On the rocks. And you can’t go back; to your life, and your kids and your ex-wife, with just a telephone call.” He sighed heavily with each breath as he spoke, reaching around to his back pocket.
  He pulled a picture out of his wallet and turned to show it to me.
  “If you think it’s just a bottle in an old brown paper sack, you don’t know Jack…” He breathed out as I took the photo from his hand.
  The picture was old and worn. The fold in the center of the picture was worn white and there were spots all over the small piece of paper, but I could clearly see what it was.
  Two little girls stood with big smiles on their faces, each of them dressed up in pretty colored Easter dresses and their hair done up in curls.
  I looked silently at the picture for several seconds before the man spoke again.
  “God bless their momma,” He said with a hacking cough, “She said I couldn’t stay, and I could hardly blame her.” His voice was forlorn and his eyes once again glassy.
  After a few more seconds of staring at the picture I turned and looked up at him.
  He was looking back at me, his eyes fully aware once again, and full of seriousness and melancholy.
  “Buddy, if you’re wondering how I could throw it all away, you just don’t know Jack.” His voice was almost distant as it grumbled out his lips.
  I looked deep into his sorrow filled eyes with sympathy.
  “If you’ve never felt a fire burning in your veins… If you’ve never seen the Devil, face to face… Let me tell ya, son. You don’t know Jack.” His voice was growing in strength now, still as sad and gruff as before, but now with more volume. More emotion.
  I took a step back, not in fear, but in awe. Before my eyes, the man seemed to change from the drunk, old homeless beggar I’d thought him to be, into a tall and wise man. The man wasn’t just a drunk, he was a man, who lived, and breathed, and loved, and felt just as I do. And he’d lived. Not always well, and with plenty of mistakes along the way. But he’d lived. And he knew now, what he could never have known then. And despite everything, he was better because of it.
  “So brother, just be glad,” he said as he looked at me with his strong blue gaze, “And tonight when you go home, hug your kids. Kiss your wife. And when you talk to God, count up all your blessings.”
  I looked at the man and nodded my thanks. I handed him a twenty, and shook his hand firmly before I walked slowly back towards my family and my warm home.  
  Thank the good Lord,
  That you don’t know, Jack.