(FIRST DRAFT)

I am late for class.  I've mentioned this before, the personality of flaw of lateness.  It's not intentional.  Being on time, that would be intentional.  If only I would set the intention to be on time.  But I don't because why?  I don't have time.

My class at The Attic starts at five p.m., and with the extra two minutes I have before class (that I could have used being on time for a change), I decide to pop into New Seasons for an apple.  I have time, I tell myself.

But here's the deal.  There is always someone in front of New Seasons.  ALWAYS.

Phone?  Check.
Dollar?  Check.
Willingness to be even later than I already am.  Weeeeelllll.

No.  I'm willing. 

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Ron," he says.

"I'm Jennifer."

"Hey, nice to meet you," he says. "You're here a lot."

"Yep, I'm here a lot and today I decided to talk for a second.  Is that good?"

"You bet."

Ron sells papers for Street Roots and I like this paper a lot.  This week, it's Natalie Merchant on the cover.  Natalie Merchant is still around and still looks that adorable?  Who knew.

It's another blazing Portland fall day and I'm getting tired of the heat.  It's a tease of freezing cold nights and blazing hot days and I'm ready.  Bring on the fall.  I peel off my sweater, toss it over my bag and stand there with Ron in a pool of awkward silence.  What to say?  What to say?

"So, how long you been selling papers?" I ask.

"A few years," he says.

"How's it going?"

"Good, not great, but good."

"Do you notice a difference, year to year?" I ask.

"I do," he says and we talk about paper sales for a while.  He's down in sales by about a third and doesn't know way.  Maybe the economy.  Maybe not.  He just shrugs.

Ron is a really nice guy.  He's got a sweet smile and a calm way that tells me he's seen life and knows things.  His calm feels wise.  I'm pretty sure he does not run late, like I do. He is a real person.  A human being with a name, he sells papers, he's making a life.  We are here, two people, chatting it up.  Okay.  It's good.

I ask, like I always do, if I can take a photo.  He's a little hesitant.  At last someone who is hesitant.  I admire his reserve.

I explain about the weblog and my project.  When I tell him I walked the streets as as a kid and have a fear of being homeless, well, that is all it takes.  He says, "you bet, take your photo." Which I do and as I say goodbye to go into the store for that apple, you know what he says?  He says, "Hey, good luck with that writing thing."

Can you imagine?  He wishes me luck.  I am not the one selling newspapers.  I'm not on the streets.  This guy, what a guy, offers me good will and good luck.

I am more touched than I can even begin to say.  I dash into the airconditioned cool store, grab a fat braeburn off the pile, rush to the check out and it's $1.69.  For an apple? Since when?

I cough up the cash and check my watch.  I'm ten minutes late but it will be fine.  The class is just a block away and my pal Cloie is there.  She opens the door and get everyone settled in.  Cloie is never late. God love her.

I come out of the New Seasons door and Ron talks to someone else.  He hands over a paper for a buck. 

"Take it easy, Ron," I say. 

"You too, Jennifer," he says.

Ron remembered my name.  He wished me luck and he remembered my name.  Not a bad trade for a buck.  Humanity.