“Boy, you sure stink lady, ” said one of the boys.
“You boys go on now. Leave us alone!” she yelled out at the two.
“Shut up you retarded old bag!” yelled the young man as he started across the street with his friend.
I got back down on my knees and I picked up what money had been left on the ground. Again, I recounted the money and I placed it in her hands.
“You sure counts awful good for being little like you are. And you can count fast too.” she said, as she laughed.
“Are you retarded too, like me?” I asked the old woman.
“You ain’t retarded boy. You as smart as a whip. Look how fast you can count. And you’re real cute too.” she replied.
“You really think so?” I said, with a big smile on my face, and my eyes open wide.
For the remainder of the day, I walked around and talked with the old woman. I stayed as close to her as possible, all the while hoping that she would once again say something nice about me.
Throughout the years, I have often thought about that old woman, especially when I drive through a large city and see someone pushing a shopping cart down the street.
I could count on one hand the times that any grown adult ever gave me a compliment or made me feel proud of myself. The few times that it did happen, I soaked up the experience like a sponge soaking up water.
I can remember exactly what she looked like and exactly how she smelled. I can remember her legs being fat at the ankles and the many veins in her legs were dark and broken. Her lips were rough and cracked and her hands were scarred and she had many sores about her hands and wrists.
But what I remember most about her was her kind smile.
Not the kind of look that one has when they actually smile—it was a look that she must have been born with—a constant smile which stayed on her face even when she was resting on the bus stop bench. I remember we parted company late in the afternoon on the day we met. I stood for a while, watching her as she disappeared into the evening.
I never saw her again after that.
But that was okay with me.
Even if it was only for a moment, she gave me what I needed from a “mother”—the thought that I might not be retarded, that I was handsome, and best of all, that I was “smart as a whip.”