I stepped away from the counter at McDonald’s in downtown Denver to let the next customer order. He asked for “coffee with 12 creams and eight sugars.” I watched him open his wallet and take out his last dollar, then fish out a nickel and three pennies.
My memory flashed back 13 months earlier when I’d been in the same downtown McDonald’s. I’d been a speaker at a convention, and before my presentation I’d walked a block from my hotel to McDonald’s for a quick breakfast.
The temperature before daybreak that February morning was just above zero. A winter wind swept through the skyscrapers.
The line to order was long. When I made it to the front of the line, I ordered a breakfast egg sandwich, hash browns, orange juice and coffee. “The coffee is free today, part of a promotion,” the clerk said.
Only then did I realize that the line in front and behind me was made up of men lining up to get free coffee. The restaurant was filled with homeless people who had come in from the cold for a free cup of coffee, and warmth.
I sat down and realized I was the only one eating. All that the others had was their free coffee.
I zipped up my winter coat to hide my coat and tie. I wanted to leave, but I couldn’t walk away from the food. I remembered what we’d been told as kids: “Eat your food. There are thousands of starving people in China.” Only the starving people weren’t in China. They were sitting all around me. I had dropped into the middle of a world I’d chosen to ignore.
None of them said a word, or even looked at me. I figured McDonald’s let them stay inside only if they didn’t panhandle or otherwise bother other customers.
I gulped my food down and rushed out of the restaurant. But the memory haunted me.
Now I was back. The customer who ordered the coffee with eight creamers and 12 sugars asked the clerk if he could use the bathroom, which was kept locked except for paying customers.
As the manager escorted the man to the bathroom, I took out $5 and told the clerk, “Add a Big Mac to his order, but don’t tell him who bought it.”
My order still wasn’t ready when he returned from the restroom. He grabbed his coffee and turned away. The clerk called after him, “Sir, there’s a hamburger here for you, too.”
“I didn’t buy a hamburger,” he said.
“It’s yours,” she said. He hesitated, looked at the sandwich, then grabbed it. I kept my eyes forward. I didn’t want our eyes to meet.
My order finally came, and I turned to leave. The manager stopped me, and asked if he could walk me to the exit.
“Is everything OK, sir?” he asked.
It wasn’t, but I said it was.
“Interesting gig you have here,” I said as we neared the exit.
“Yes, it’s tough.”
I fled out the door into the cold and dark street — home to too many.
Marc Wilson lives in Loveland.
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