Coca-Cola and a Doughnut Stick

Every day, as I walked to whatever odd job I’d been able to pick up, I’d pass this little woodshop. An old couple lived in the house on the property; I’d seen them coming and going plenty of times. Never gave them much thought. But one day it was like a voice told me, “Stop. Go in and talk to them.”

Maybe it was just desperation talking, but I listened. I walked into the shop and saw the old man running a jigsaw. “Sir,” I said, “do you have any work I could do?”

The old man turned and looked at me, a 16-year-old runaway with hair down past his shoulders and tattoos on his arm. But the old man’s eyes didn’t judge me, and he didn’t look scared. “Ask the boss,” he said, pointing toward the old lady.

“Oh, Honey,” she told me, “we don’t have insurance to cover you working in the shop.”

“Thanks anyways. I appreciate it,” I said, and turned to leave.

“Wait!” she called. “Can you cut grass?” I certainly could. “You come back around four o’clock.”

I showed up at four sharp, got their mower and set to work on the big field next to the house. About halfway through I saw someone standing under a big apple tree next to the fence in the distance. It was the old lady. When I finished mowing, she said, “You must be hungry and thirsty after all that hard work.” She handed me a Coca-Cola and a doughnut stick and paid me a couple of dollars. That was my first day on the job for Russell and Bea Costner.

Every two weeks I could count on mowing that lawn. And I could count on Bea waiting for me under the apple tree, holding a cola and a doughnut stick. It was the first thing I could count on in a long time.

Growing up I never knew what the next day would bring. Nothing good, that was for sure. We moved all the time. My dad wasn’t around, and eventually my mom remarried. That guy was meaner than mean. He sold our food stamps to buy drugs. All I had to eat was the free lunch at school. Sometimes I wouldn’t have eaten since Friday, and by Sunday I was so hungry I could barely stand it. No one else knew what was going on at home.

I’d never been a troublemaker and always worked hard. That didn’t matter to my stepfather. He beat the tar out of me. I learned to keep my mouth shut and stay under the radar. But inside, there was all this pain. It was pain worse than the gnawing ache of an empty belly. I had to let it out somehow. Problem was, I had no one to talk to. No one who really cared about me. No one I could trust. I was about 12 when I started writing things down. My feelings came out on the page as simple little poems. It helped me to put my loneliness into words, but I didn’t show anyone.