Bricks

“Do you believe in God?”

I was in the process of cleaning a few dirty porcelain-white dishes in a tiny three-compartment stainless-steel sink. “What?” I said.

“Do you believe in God?”

“Yeah,” I said as I nodded my head, up to my elbows in soapy water.

“He’s sure got a sense of humor, don’t He?”

I feigned a quick chuckle as Master Chef pointed to his fairly average-looking bearded face. He had just explained that he was essentially allergic to everything, even the drug doctors often give to patients who are having an allergic reaction. Bummer, I thought. He wasn’t a bad looking guy though; I’m not sure why he thought he was so unattractive. It bothered me that he disliked himself so much. He had been going on for a few minutes, listing all the foods he was allergic to. He had turned down a hot dish we had prepared that had pork in it. I offered a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but he couldn’t have that either. Sorry, I said.

We call him Master Chef at Norlin, the library I work at on campus; since he always seems to be wearing a chef’s uniform when he comes in to use the public computers. He can be a very pleasant guy. I often talk to him while I’m working at the gate. Last time he told me about a bike light that has a USB port so you can charge it on your computer. That’s pretty sweet, I told him. I don’t think he recognized me from the homeless shelter, but I asked him if he had been staying warm. He said something about ‘it’s supposed to be winter but it’s warm outside’. He seemed nice when he wasn’t talking about food, but I found it sadly ironic that Master Chef was allergic to so much of it.

I gave him a quick wave as he walked out of the east entrance.

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I’ve heard it said that you never truly know someone until you know their story.

It was a warm morning in January. I had just left my work-study job at the campus library and biked into the heart of the city, locking my sleek aluminum-bodied road bike to a rusty black bike rack with a hefty cable lock. I reached for the weathered wooden door and stepped inside, the distinct smell of body odor and hot egg casserole filling my nose. It was noisy and crowded. I had to brush past a few taller men, unzipping my coat and setting it on a box of bread loaves beside the refrigerator in the kitchen.

I heard someone call my name and turned toward the sound. Dennis smiled as he waved, asking me how I was doing. I told him I was doing well and asked him if he was staying warm. He said he had been staying at the warming shelters that churches around town have been hosting. That’s good. I’m glad you’re staying out of the elements, I said. He smiled again. I had seen him a few days earlier at the Starbucks on Pearl Street getting a cup of coffee with a gift card he had been given.

Dennis is a clean-shaven man in his mid-forties. A grey beanie sat atop his short, graying hair. He offered to lend me a hand with some of the dishes, and moved alongside me to help. We talked about our hometowns, bikes, the weather, and girls. He’s from Minnesota, where the cold can be unforgiving. He seemed appreciative that the weather here hadn’t been as harsh. It had been an unnaturally warm winter so far, he pointed out. We speculated what the rest of the season would bring.

Brian had just left. He had grown up in Pueblo, ended up living on the streets, moved to Broomfield to stay with a friend, was then moved into a mental health facility, and was recently released into special housing on the north side of town. Now he was trying to move on and get his life back in order.

As usual, Todd came in around 12:30 to get a meal. His hair was sticking up above the purple headband he was wearing, probably due to the high winds outside. It seemed like he hadn’t shaved in a while, which was pretty normal for him I noticed. He asked me how my new bike was working out for me.

I smiled at Ryan and gave him a head nod as he walked in. I had talked to him a few weeks earlier. He had told me a story that left me speechless.

About a month prior to our conversation, Ryan had been biking home. It was dark, so he had a front and rear blinking light on his bike. He had been riding in the bike lane when he was hit by a drunk driver who was driving 50 miles an hour. Ryan was launched 63 feet into the air, fully conscious, and landed straight onto his head on the asphalt. The driver stopped and pulled him out of the street to prevent him from being run over by traffic. He told me that he walked out of the ER within six hours, and he did not break a single bone in his body. He showed me the few scars he had on his hands from covering his head during impact, and he told me that he had to get twelve staples in his head since his skin split open when he hit the ground.

I remember just standing there; looking at Ryan and at the small scars he had on his hands. You should be dead, I said. I know, he said.

He told me that while he was falling toward the ground, he began to panic, because he was certain that he would die. But the crazy thing is, he said as he leaned toward me and spoke a little more softly, is that right before I hit the ground, I felt an energy come over my entire body. I fell asleep right before impact, and I didn’t break a single bone. I remember thinking about his story for the rest of the day. I couldn’t imagine falling from the height of a six-story building onto my head, without a helmet even.

I once worked alongside Tim, a Grammy-nominated producer from L.A., who was the producer for Afroman. I remember him telling me about all of the money that Afroman would get from Universal Records. Like the time they gave him a $500,000 check that he immediately signed and put into a desk drawer for several months. It drove Tim crazy since Afroman was so irresponsible with money. I found it pretty interesting. He had tattoos on his neck and was married to a tiny Asian woman who made delicious Thai food.

This place is always full of people and stories. And even though it’s a tiny, 1,200-square-foot brick building in an alleyway in the city, it’s one of my favorite places to be. Everyone has a story to share, and I love being the person to hear them.

Batman walked over to the kitchen and began telling me about his past jobs. He talked about Madonna and a little mp3 player he had picked up. I have Led Zeppelin, Johnny Cash, Christina Aguilera, and I still have 157 megabytes left. I enjoyed listening to him talk.

“If you’re above ground and breathing, it’s going to be a good day,” he said. I couldn’t have said it better, I thought.