The Lunch, the Homeless Man, and the Seagull
By four that afternoon, Nick’s mom had finished most of the work she’d intended to do that weekend. He watched her walk into the family room and saw her look at the Bible he was holding. She couldn’t know that he was building a case for Jesus, especially for her.
“Nick,” she said, “what do you think of heading out to a nice lunch at the Beachfront Grill in St. Stephen’s? It’s beautiful outside. I could go for some grilled seafood and a bit of reggae.”
Nick smiled and stood up. “That sounds great Mom. I’m gonna get changed. You want to go now, right?”
“Works for me.”
Nick was excited about having lunch with his favorite girl, his mom. She was always working, so relaxing with her to the tunes of steel drums and reggae singers was going to be a treat.
Skipping every two stairs, he charged up to his room to change into his shorts, flip flops, and a t-shirt, which bore a large picture of a sailfish on its back. His teeth felt a little fuzzy, so he brushed them again and combed his hair into place, applying gel to keep it from flying around in the wind in the Ferrari. He considered his teeth and hair to be his two best assets.
After returning to the stairs, he grabbed the stair rail and skipped every three stairs down before landing in the hallway on his way to the family room. His mom was waiting for him on the couch with a copy of BusinessWeek in her hand.
“Ready?” She asked.
“More than ready.”
They walked to the garage and opened it. He didn’t need to ask her whether they’d be taking the Ferrari. It was a given. His Mustang wasn’t even considered.
Nick slipped into the passenger seat and watched his mom climb into the driver’s seat before igniting the engine and pulling out of the driveway. They were off. They headed south along Peace Boulevard before getting on the skyway bridge to St. Stephen’s.
As they started crossing over the bridge, Nick watched a variety of yachts, powerboats and sailboats as they moved about in the water. Fishermen, boaters, and water skiers of all ages were enjoying that hot summer day on the bay. They appeared as specks in the distance, yet he could feel their excitement on the water. Being on the bay was an exhilarating experience and one of the great benefits of living in Florida. He gazed at that water and felt his short hair as it battled the salty breeze and his skin as it drank in the warmth of the sun.
“Perfect weather today,” he said.
“Definitely.”
The Ferrari glistened in the sun as it headed down the tall bridge over the bay and into St. Stephen’s. Nick noticed an old Volkswagen bus and a row of battered and aged cars parked along the Bayfront beach, which butted up against the roadway. Dark-skinned families were gathered by picnic tables and grills and umbrellas. Small kids were playing on the beach, clutching buckets and shovels, with their caretakers standing nearby, knee high in the water with fishing poles.
None appeared to be in his new class, he thought, the upper class. They were probably enjoying a rare day of fun between the long work weeks in their low-paying jobs. Or maybe they didn’t have jobs or couldn’t find jobs. Maybe some lived there, using their beat up cars and vans as their shelters and the public restrooms and ocean as their amenities and source of food.
He wondered whether those fishing were fishing for sport or for dinner. And he considered whether they needed to fish to eat dinner or simply to make ends meet. One small child lifted her head up from her sandcastle project and pointed to the red Ferrari, which made Nick feel a little uncomfortable.
He looked over at his mom. She was wearing a long aquamarine-colored sundress, with matching sandals and oversized gold hoop earrings. Her short-bobbed, blonde hair, which was usually sprayed firmly in place, blew freely in the wind, expressing a rare moment of freedom from her role as a CEO.
“I wonder if the people fishing are catching their dinners,” Nick said.
“Could be.”
“Well if so, I hope they catch what they need,” he said. “I feel sort of guilty passing them in the Ferrari. So many people have nothing and are struggling these days.”
She sighed. “Nick, you’ve developed such a soft heart for the poor. Where did that come from? I know your dad was missing the empathy gene, so it didn’t come from him. I draw a distinction between the truly needy and those too lazy to advance themselves. You should draw the same distinction. Most people are just lazy. If they worked hard, they’d be CEOs too. Everyone makes choices. People can choose hard work or they can choose to take it easy. They can choose between getting an education and staying in dead-end jobs.”
“Mom, I don’t think people necessarily choose to take it easy or stay in dead-end jobs. Some may not care about money or possessions. Maybe they’d rather serve as missionaries or live simple lives in simple jobs. Some can’t get through school. Maybe they can’t pass calculus or write a paper. It’s not because they’re lazy. It’s because they were born without minds for education.”
“You make some good points, Nick, but there are other options for those without book smarts if they want to make money. You don’t need to be a brain scientist to make a good living in real estate, construction, or the military. Those are just a few examples. It’s all about making the right choices and having a strong work ethic.”
Nick reflected on her words. She turned down the exit and before long arrived at the Beachfront Grill.
As they pulled up to the valet, Nick noticed a middle-aged man sitting nearby on the sidewalk bordering the street wearing a scruffy pair of jeans and a bleached-out plaid button-down shirt. His face was full of hair and his sandy blonde hair was knotted and straggly. The exposed skin on his face and hands was sunburned in a deep tomato-like color. He looked up at Nick as he climbed out of the Ferrari and held up a sign, “Will work for food.”
Nick reached into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a twenty dollar bill, the only bill in his wallet. His mom came around the car and grabbed Nick’s arm.
“I hope you’re not giving that to the bum! He’ll just use it to buy alcohol or drugs. The bums have been overrunning the businesses here lately. There are way too many of them and their population is growing. If this continues, they’ll be putting the retail establishments out of business. The beach will be filled with dilapidated buildings and bums. No one wants to see them and no one wants them here. Feeding them with money is like feeding the seagulls. Can’t get rid of them either.”
Nick looked at the man again, who didn’t appear to be drunk, but did appear despondent. Tired and worn, he looked as if he’d fought a war and lost. Maybe he had fought in a war. Maybe he’d served in the military. He put his money back in his pocket and walked into the restaurant behind his mom.
A voice sounded itself in his mind, directing him back to the man. When his mom went to use the restroom, Nick hurried out the front door and over to the man, who appeared to be watching the cars as they sped along the road in front of the restaurant.
“Here you go, man,” he said as he handed him the twenty, “God bless you.”
The man looked at him with piercing green eyes and smiled, exposing several missing teeth. “God bless you,” he said as he pulled himself up from the ground and stretched. “I’m gonna get me some food.” Nick watched him as he strolled across the street and into a fast-food restaurant.
Hopefully he hadn’t heard what his mom had said. The poor guy needed some dignity.
He returned to the restaurant and found his mom reading the menu at a table outside, across the patio from the band, overlooking the ocean. Facing the ocean, he pulled out a chair and sat down next to her.
“Mom, I gave him the twenty bucks anyway. He needed food and I watched him go across the street and into a fast food restaurant.”
“Small miracles. Most bums head into the liquor store after you give them money.”
“Not the one we saw.” Nick grabbed the menu and scanned it. “Shrimp, burgers, pork, yum.”
“I’ll probably get a salad with iced tea,” she said.
Nick studied his options, finally deciding on the bacon burger. He closed his menu.
A few minutes later, a man in his early forties stepped up to the table with a pad of paper and a pen in his hand. “Hi, my name’s Miguel,” he said cheerfully, “What can I get you to drink? Rum runners are two-for-one right now and we’re running a special on house wines and beers.
Nick felt a strong urge to order a beer, but considered his company.
“I’ll take an unsweetened iced tea,” Nick’s mom answered.
“I’ll take an iced tea too, but sweetened,” Nick said.
Miguel left to get their drinks, just as the band members returned to the stage. The sounds of steel drums and Caribbean beats soon permeated the air. The singer in the band wore a Jamaican red, black, and gold woven hat over his dreadlocks and somewhat resembled the late Bob Marley. He sang his “Three Little Birds” and “No Woman No Cry” songs just as Bob would have sung them.
The restaurant was starting to fill up, which was likely due to a combination of the music, the salty sea air, the happy hour, and the early bird specials. The latter probably attracted the large number of older patrons who were now sitting at the tables around Nick and his mom. “Not too shabby. Probably spend a lot of time here.”
“Here are your drinks. Are you ready to order?” Miguel asked as he set the drinks in front of them.
“In just a moment, Miguel,” his mom said.
“OK, no worries and no rush. We have plenty of time. So, are you here on vacation?”
“No, we live here,” Catherine responded, still studying the menu.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it,” Miguel said.
“Very nice. We love this place,” she said.
Nick noticed the way she avoided his eye contact as she answered his questions. He’d make up for that.
“Yeah, it’s awesome here,” Nick said as he looked into Miguel’s smoky eyes. “How long have you been working here?”
“Ten years, just had my ten year anniversary.”
“Congratulations!” Nick said, “Did you celebrate?”
“Sure, I went out with the other servers after work. They bought me a few drinks.”
Nick saw his mom turn her head towards him as he asked, “How about the owners? Did they recognize you?”
“Yeah, they recognized I’ve been here ten years, after I told them. They don’t keep track of those sorts of things.” He chuckled.
“Well, I’m ready to order,” Nick’s mom said.
Miguel pulled out his notepad and pen.
“I’ll take the grilled salmon salad with the balsamic vinaigrette dressing on the side, cooked medium rare.”
“I’ll take the bacon burger, cooked medium well with the fries and ketchup. No pickles or tomatoes, please.”
“Okay, I’ll put your order in and be back soon. Enjoy the atmosphere.”
Miguel left and walked over to another table.
“Choices, Nick, choices. We recognize our employees for years of service. They wouldn’t have to let us know. In fact, I feel like I know each and every one of them. I may not know them by name, but I never forget a face. We celebrate every ten years of service with a lavish ceremony and each employee gets a check for a thousand dollars. That’s when I connect the faces to the names, when I’m handing them the check.”
“A thousand bucks is generous mom. I’m sure they appreciate that.”
The band continued with another reggae song and Nick’s thoughts turned to the music as he waited for his burger. Relaxing in his chair, he breathed in the salty air and enjoyed his surroundings. Young teenage girls and boys played volleyball over a net in the near distance. Pelicans and seagulls were hovering overhead, periodically landing to scoop up any food dropped by the beachgoers. Just above him, the restaurant had lined the open air with fishing pole wire, which kept the birds from taking the patrons’ food. Nick appreciated that. The seagulls had a reputation for being aggressive with food by the beach.
Miguel approached with their food and placed their plates down in front of them. The food looked steaming hot and delicious and the aroma of his grilled burger penetrated his senses. He popped the bun off and loaded it up with ketchup and salt. Then he took his first bite.
As he swallowed, a particular seagull caught Nick’s attention. It was skipping under the tables and moving closer to their table. Maybe it was hungry.
“Little opportunist,” His mom said as she threw a couple of croutons to the ground to feed it, but it ignored the croutons.
“Guess it doesn’t like croutons,” she said.
Nick threw the seagull a small piece of his hamburger, which the bird also ignored. The bird seemed content just to stand under their table. “Strange bird,” Nick thought.
Miguel returned to the table. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No, we’re good. Some interesting seagulls here,” Nick commented.
“For sure,” Miguel said, “some say they’re like the people. They don’t want the handouts, just the attention. Maybe they want attention for their causes.”
“And what are seagulls’ causes?” Nick’s mom asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“They want to help others by showing them beauty, freedom and peace. They don’t fight or judge one another. They live simple lives and take from the environment only what’s needed. They’re just humble creatures with dreams.”
“Well said, Miguel,” Nick said with a wink.
“Interesting,” his mom added in what Nick perceived to be an insincere remark.
***
When Nick arrived home, he went to his room and reflected on his mom’s views on the choices that people make. He wondered why some made such poor choices, while others made excellent choices in their lives. He also questioned why some were driven to help others while others were driven to help themselves. Social classes and demographics popped into his head. God’s plans and gifts and expectations popped up next.
“What does God expect of the poor, who are often born in such abusive and rough homes? He can’t expect them to give much to the church, or work hard, or go to college, or help others when they have so few blessings…can he? And what about the wealthy who make poor decisions or who judge others harshly? How harshly does he judge them? What if they attempt to make amends? When is it too late?”
He flipped open his laptop computer and went to the webpage of his church, wondering whether his pastor had discussed these issues in any of his past sermons, which had been posted on-line. He read a few sermon titles before coming upon one that read, “Social Classes and Expectations.” He clicked on the title and adjusted the volume of his computer so he could hear the pastor’s sermon, which was as follows.
“Today I’m going to discuss social classes and expectations. A large charitable organization just released a study indicating that forty five percent of Floridian households, or 3.2 million people, can’t afford the cost of living. They can’t afford basic housing, healthcare, food, childcare, and transportation. Despite our booming tourist industry, almost half of Floridians are struggling, in both the lower and the middle classes. Yet Florida is also home to ten of the world’s richest billionaires and is ranked 18th in the country in per capita income. These facts suggest a large gap between the rich and the poor, and economists point out that this gap has grown substantially since the 1970s.”
“Some of the wealthy and some in the middle class don’t see it. They don’t want the attention of the poor and don’t want to pay attention to the poor. Perhaps this reasoning is behind the laws in three major Florida cities right now prohibiting people from feeding the homeless in public places. They don’t want to see them. They’d prefer to surround themselves by beauty, not by blight.”
The pastor read the Prodigal Son parable, which was about a young son who ran off from home and blew his inheritance through lavish living and a wild lifestyle. After he ran out of money, he returned home humbled, and his father was elated when he saw him. So pleased that he’d returned, he threw a celebration for him. His older brother, who’d always lived sensibly in ways his father would appreciate, was furious. His father had never thrown such a party for him.
Nick had heard the story before and had always wondered why the father never celebrated the older son. Surely the older son’s efforts and sacrifices should have been recognized. But they weren’t, the pastor noted, because the older son was too self-righteous.