Shorty: Take a Skid Row Bum to Dinner.

And act of charity for the wrong reason inspires a young woman to assess her feelings about seasonal generosity.

Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash

Assigned to write a Christmas story for the newspaper, Katy wanted to find what she called "a skid row bum" for her subject. She would treat the lucky man to a holiday dinner in a fancy restaurant and give him a donated TV for his trouble. Somehow through her contacts, she heard of Shorty who usually stood in the soup line on Second West. Perfect! Even his street name had a feature story ring to it.

For some reason, she invited me to be her wingman. Katy usually heaved a lot of bravado around the city room, but maybe diving into the more destitute part of town gave her pause. That surprises me now to think of it. She was born and raised in New Orleans, so the usual timid Mormon girl personality was not bred into her style at all. Being around her made me feel even more like a wallflower, but I liked to tag along with reporters if the opportunities arose.

Everybody in the soup line seemed to know Shorty and pointed him out to us. He was indeed short, a tiny man no higher that five feet who came from Mexico. Having no family to help him, he lived in a fleabag hotel on State Street. With a shrug and halting English, he agreed to let us take him to dinner and install a TV set in his room.

As this date from the wild side drew nearer, I grew more apprehensive. This was not a generous act, but a sorry set-up for a story. At the time, I was only the City Desk secretary with dreams of becoming a reporter. I figured it was beneficial to shadow a professional reporter to see how things worked. This seemed sketchy, though, and Frank Sinatra's assessment that reporters were nothing but hookers and bums echoed in my mind.

As arranged, we picked up Shorty outside his hotel and took him to Little America, a tourist hotel with a fairly elegant coffee shop. It glittered with holiday décor embellishing its brass trims and plush seating. Crisp white linens draped the tables and silverware gleamed next to the place settings. Spotless jars held the condiments instead of the paper packets already creeping into café service.

Photo by Debby Hudson on Unsplash

Amid all this splendor, Shorty folded in on himself, shy and overwhelmed. I felt just as uncomfortable that this would humiliate him more than bring joy. He was so small to begin with, but our surroundings diminished him even further, emphasizing his threadbare clothes and unwashed hair.

Perhaps he didn't know enough English to understand what we were all about. Or maybe there were mental health issues or dementia that clouded his mind. As I noticed how he seemed to shrug with each response to a question, I wondered if his taciturn acceptance of this weird bit of luck hid a deep pain from a lifetime of insult. Salt Lake wasn't a friendly town for people outside the Church.

Maybe he thought at least it was a night out with a good meal, no matter how strange the circumstances. When his plate of meat and steaming fresh vegetables appeared before him, he dug in with vigor. Barely a word escaped between bites.

Katy struggled to drag information out of him. He would nod, his mouth too full to answer. Reasons why he never returned to Mexico remained a mystery. He had lost his wife and children during an epidemic of some kind. He never told us his age, but even if he was middle-aged, life had aged him with a robotic routine of poverty he couldn't leave. It was even unclear if he worked at all or where he got money to live. When we saw where he lived, his reality hit hard.

Photo by Akshay Paatil on Unsplash

Back at the hotel, Katy and I hoisted this unwieldy TV up to his second floor room. The hallway barely had enough light to see or space to maneuver. The 100-year-old woodwork was flaked with ragged paint. In his room, a tiny sink hung in the corner and a metal bed banked against the wall. A lone light bulb cast a dull glow. Then I realized windows illuminated the hallway, but Shorty's windowless room had probably been one in a row of prostitute cribs. That bed and its lumpy mattress had been the scene of countless business encounters.

We set the TV on the floor and plugged it in. The rabbit ear antenna picked up a grainy signal in black and white. To our surprise, Shorty jumped up and down at this unexpected gift.

With that done, the evening was over and Katy had her story, such as it was. I couldn't get this little man out of my mind. I wanted to do something more meaningful for him, but I didn't know what would be helpful, much less appropriate. Maybe I should just mind my own business. Or maybe ….

Finally, I gathered the courage to knock on his door. The lock barely held the door closed, leaving it to rattle and shimmy when I rapped on it. Darkness seeped through the space between the door and the frame. Moments passed and finally a mumble. Shorty was asleep, of course. I'd awakened him, though it was around two in the afternoon. Apparently, daytime TV didn't appeal to him.

Photo by Miha Rekar on Unsplash

I tried to tell him who I was and if he needed anything. A groan and a mumble. Losing my nerve, I retreated down the narrow stairway where a million boots had polished its grain over the past century.

What in the hell was I doing? Who did I think I was to invade this man's life? Why did I think I could help him when I could barely support myself? More importantly, what would be the emotional cost to a man beleaguered by life if I butted in wanting to help? Very little information came from Katy's interview, including if he had friends among that crowd lined up at the soup kitchen. Maybe he was just fine, having established where and how to meet his needs. He was part of a community.

Emerging from that abysmal hotel with a skin-crawling sense of guilt, I walked home to my own second story walkup. My $100 a month apartment carved out of a Victorian house was palatial compared to Shorty's digs. I felt so stupid to get sucked in to someone else's woeful existence like that. Was I selfish to withdraw or was it equally selfish to push myself into his affairs? While I questioned the ethics behind Katy’s interview, what was my motive here?

Sometimes rescuing someone is a form of insult, even when it's apparent someone is in desperate need. By whose standards? The dinner was nothing more than a scam to get a story. To me, it was a distasteful abuse of a Shorty's privacy. That had always been a barrier for me as a budding journalist. You have to be extremely nosy to be a reporter as well as lacking any empathy for the subject. This was one of many experiences that made me realize I wasn't cut out for this career.

To be a cheery do-gooder, though, was even more shameful in its hypocrisy. A holiday dinner and donation did nothing to improve Shorty's existence. Such seasonal charity must be stretched over the entire year if it's to make a difference. Also, there's that insinuation that one person's condition is just so pathetic, they need to be helped. And of course, there’s always someone out there who will be more than willing to flaunt their wealth and expertise. That's why some people rankle when offered help or advise. Charity is a distasteful word.

At the time, I didn't know about ESL tutoring in libraries or any other volunteer opportunities that would offer substantial help to people in need. After years of teaching immigrants to navigate the English-speaking world, though, I wondered how far those efforts went toward the learners' goals. I guess I'll never really know. We never know how our actions affect others.

Whether in an official capacity or in casual encounters, sometimes a smile or an encouraging bit of information will spur someone to make a change. The outcome is on them, however. We can give of ourselves, but then detach from our expectations and motivations. Whatever happens, happens. That’s all we can do.

If you enjoyed this post feel free to explore other poems, essays, and stories in the Ring Around the Basin Archive. I also love to read your comments, so please share your thoughts. Let’s start a conversation. And if you wish to support my writings, please consider subscribing or upgrading to a paid subscription. It’s now only $50/year. Even better, I would appreciate it if you could share Ring Around the Basin with your friends. Thank you!

All my books, Paradise Ridge, When the Horses Come and Go, and Ghost in the Forest are currently available on Kindle.

Ghost in the Forest, is also available in paperback for ten bucks. Paradise Ridge is out-of-print, but the Kindle version is re-edited and better quality. Hard copies of When the Horses Come and Go are gone unless that dusty box in the corner still has some.

Book Review of Ghost in the Forest:

E.R. Flynn, Illustrator, Cartoonist, Storyteller and Creator of "Escape from Clowntown Comics" here on Substack.

"Ghost in The Forest' is a great read! Take note People. If you love stories about environmentalism and nature, its clash with urban mindsets, as well as personal transformation, this is the book for you!

"Ghost in The Forest" is a quick 126-page read. It's the story of Dori, a woman trapped in a mix of grief over parental loss and refusing to accept how her hometown and her friends have changed over the years. Because of this, Dori has become a recluse and a self-imposed misanthrope who finds more comfort amongst the hiking trails around her hometown of Morristown than in her dealings with the raw reality of other humans.

The book, in some ways, resembled Edward Abbey’s “Desert Solitaire” in that the story follows a protagonist's love of nature and angst about humans encroaching on it. In this case, it’s how Morristown is transforming into a mountain biking destination where cyclists run rampant on trails and nature.

However, a tragedy involving said mountain biking becomes a major pivot point for Dori, leading to a series of events that eventually bring about personal evolution and discovery.

If you're a nature lover, this book is a must-read. It beautifully portrays the clash between environmentalism and urban mindsets and the journey of personal transformation. The book's vivid descriptions of nature and the protagonist's love for it will surely intrigue you.

Paradise Ridge Review by western author D. B. Jackson:

If you draw circle roughly around an area that includes northern Nevada, southern Oregon, and southern Idaho, within that circle exists a culture and people who live a lifestyle largely untouched by modern values. These are the "buckaroos" and Basque characters author Sue Cauhape brings to life in her literary novel, "Paradise Ridge".

Leandro, the illegitimate seventh son of patriarch Xavier Arriaga and his mistress, Gisela, is at the center of this intriguing story that travels exceedingly successfully at both the personal level of the characters, as well as the compelling level where the story is told.

Cauhape writes in a literary style that reminds me of Annie Poulx. Paradise Ridge, on the surface, appears to be an upscale Western novel...once inside the pages, you will soon discover a potential classic waiting to be discovered.

I rated this book a 5...because that's all the stars there were.