When you met two homeless guys who recently befriended each other. And one’s a grumpy (but lovable-ish) 70-year-old veteran. And one’s about your age, and he was worried about the older guy being recently homeless, so he took the older guy under his wing. And both have housing available soon, but for the interim of about a week, the younger guy cashed in a favor so that the older guy wouldn’t need to be on the streets. So they’re staying in a very sketchy cheap motel.

And you always share food. So you bring food and shampoo, soap and drinks, books and games, candles and sudoku puzzles, instant coffee, paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware. And they both smoke, so they got a smoking room, because that completely makes sense. And I hate to be around cigarette smoke, so when they smoke, I leave. And that works for me – it’s their room, and they should totally have a room that works for them.

Yet this is causing problems – the younger guy asks the older guy not to smoke when I’m there. He sees it as an aspect of respect, even though I don’t see their smoking as a disrespect to me. So I stick up for the older guy, as he also sticks up for himself, saying he’s been smoking since he’s 11 years old, and he’s not about to stop now. He appreciates me bringing food, yet he also has a right to smoke.

And the younger guy is upset about this, yet he sees it’s not likely to change. So when he knows I’m coming, he opens the windows, burns cinnamon candles, and tries to have the room aired out. And you fall in love with the old guy for sticking up for himself, and you fall in love with the younger guy for trying to accommodate your own cigarette-ick that no one needs to accommodate.

And one day, you tell them you’ll bring dinner over at a specific time. And the younger guy tells you that he will provide the hors d’oeuvres, because he needs to contribute, he wants to have some parity, he wants to give what he can, even if it won’t be as comparable as he wishes it could be.

And when you get there, the room is aired out, the windows are open and the heat is on, so the room is a comfortable temperature even with the windows open. And the two nightstands have been moved together, to form a long table in front of the sofa. And with the night stands as a table now, place settings are out, with plastic cups, paper plates, napkins, and plastic silverware all set up, just like fancy dinners, with forks on the left, spoons and knives on the right. And candles are lit, so the room isn’t just aired out – it actually smells good. And hors d’oeuvres are set out too: crackers and cheese packets, cookies and muffins, artichoke dip, and dried papaya.

And you see the set-up and your heart breaks open and you try not to cry at the care and attention to detail and the prettiness they created in a really sketchy motel room. And you serve the food you brought on the paper plates, as the younger guy passes out the hors d’oeuvres and tells you about them.

He used his money to buy the artichoke dip. And he dumpster dove at hotels for the rest. And you’ve never dumpster dived for food, and the judgmental part of you feels squicked out and also lucky to have never needed to resort to that. And the part of you whose heart is bursting about the parity he is aiming for thinks back to the many times you’ve coordinated conferences, meetings, and trainings at hotels. And with that history, you know that leftovers get trashed, and you know that many leftovers are still wrapped, so you try silently, inside of yourself, to unsquick your squick. Because there is no way that I am going to refuse that food.

And as he passes me dried papaya and crackers and cheese to go with the artichoke dip that he bought, I ate every bite of every thing. And the meal was delicious and the company was heart-melting. And I don’t even like dried papaya, except for that night. And I gush at them at the perfection and beauty and goodness they created.

And I have two new friends. And dried papaya actually tasted good for the first and only time ever. I have been gifted beyond measure. And parity happened beyond what the younger guy believes. Sometimes we give in different currencies that are not less than each other.

;free

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By Lynelle Wilcox - Special to Salem Reporter

Lynelle Wilcox has served people experiencing homelessness in Salem for six years - initially volunteering at warming centers and homeless events. As people shared their stories through the years, she saw how much a smile and hello can create commonality, connection, and sometimes hope. And hope can change everything. She writes about some of the things she’s learned along the way, and shares some of the stories. She adores her kids, and loves vivid colors, cats, happy clothes, music, cooking, skies, dogs, and daisies