Bill

Bill pulled up to the bus depot in his beat-up white van. It was early, the sun still not quite up, but enough so that the world was gray instead of dark. He sat for a moment, the headlights cutting a swath in the dying darkness. The station had seen better days. Those days were also some of the worst ones in Bill’s life. 

A picture was taped to the dash, one of two white kids before life took a bad turn. A dark-haired boy had his arm around a smaller boy, one with a cow lick that jutted from the side of his head. Bill touched the right side of his skull. Though at least fifty years had passed since that picture was taken, the eternal cowlick remained. A smudge of dirt was on the older boy’s face. They both wore mischievous smiles. Bill touched the image and took a deep breath. He killed the headlights, shut off the van and got out. His legs ached and his back hurt. The arthritis in his hands would flare up before he made it back home that afternoon but that didn’t matter. The people here, those in need, they are what mattered to Bill. 

He went to the back door, pulled the handle up and opened the right side. Though he could smell the food while in the cab, it always had a richer aroma from the side or the back. He pressed a latch on the left door, releasing it. He pulled a folding table from the left side, set it on the ground before unfolding its legs and setting it upright. 

By then, the chatter had started, voices in the darkness. Among those were whispers of “He’s here.”

He pulled the table further from the back of the van and closed the double doors. The side door came next. He pulled tin trays of eggs and bacon, toast and grits, nothing special, but something to the homeless who used the bus depot and the outlying areas as places to rest their heads or hunker down against the rain. Some of those people were full families of three or four or five. Orange juice and water and sweet tea went on the tables, along with paper plates and cups and plastic utensil packs. 

Lastly, he closed the van’s side door and walked to the table where he opened the first package of plates. When he looked up, a man around who could have been a couple years older than him—late sixties, maybe very early seventies—stood at the table. He barely looked at Bill, averting his eyes, possibly from shame and embarrassment. 

“Good morning,” Bill said.

“Morning, sir,” the other man replied, keeping his eyes diverted.

“Bill. Just Bill.” He smiled, trying to show warmth. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Yes, si … yes, Bill.”

He made the man a plate, handed it over and told him to get something to drink and a pack of utensils, then he added, “Have a good day.”

“Thank you, Bill,” the man said and walked off, his head down, plate in both hands. Bill watched him go with a touch of sadness pulling at his heart. 

“You’re welcome.”

For the next two hours, Bill did the same thing for every person who came to the table. As each person walked off, he repeated the same thing he said to the first man. “Have a good day.”

After the last of the homeless came through, he packed up. The rest of the food would go to a local shelter. By then, the sun was out and traffic along the lower part of downtown had picked up considerably. Most of the homeless people had moved on to other spots. With everything back in the van, he closed the back door and started for the driver’s door.

“Excuse me, Sir.”

He turned. An older black lady with a slight hunch in her back stood at the entrance to the bus depot. Her hair was short, almost nonexistent. Grooves cut into her face from a long life or maybe a hard one. She stepped outside and let the door close behind her. She approached with an easy stride that didn’t match her appearance. 

“Can I help you, Ma’am?”

“No, sir, but I would like to help you.”

“Help me?”

She nodded and held out an envelope. “I see you out here three times a week all by yourself. You bring food to the homeless. You are one of those people who are good for the world. I just want to help pay for some of the food you give.”

Bill smiled and put his hand up. He shook his head. “That’s not necessary.”

“Maybe not, but I’d like to help.”

“If you want to help, give that money to one of the local shelters. They’re in need of a lot more than food. As for me …” Bill looked around as memories traced his way across his mind. “My parents died before I turned twelve. My brother and I had no family, no place to stay and no food to eat. I spent many nights here with my brother on one of the benches or around back where the terminals are. I always said if I was able to make something of myself, I would come back and feed the people and give back to the community. This … this … I enjoy doing this. I enjoy helping people. So, thank you, but give that money to any of the local shelters. I’m sure they would appreciate it.”

The woman nodded. “You’re an angel, Mister.”

Bill almost laughed at this. “I’m no angel but thank you.”

Bill got into the van. Before he left, he looked at the picture of the two white boys. He touched the image of his brother, Robert. Though he left Bill’s life when he was nineteen, Bill missed him more and more each day. He backed out of the spot he had occupied for nearly three hours and turned the van toward the parking lot’s exit. A glance in the rearview mirror showed him the backdoor windows. The first person he had fed that day stood leaning against the window jam, his arms crossed over his chest. 

The man waved. Bill’s eyes widened. 

“Robert.”