Short Stories by Phoenix Hocking

Rich man, Poor man

by

Phoenix Hocking


“Well, ma'am,” said the old gentleman as he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head, “I've been rich and I've been poor.  To tell you the truth, except for the not having any money part, I think I like being poor better.”
Clara took a sip of her coffee.  She had been coming to the free meals at the Senior Center a couple times a week for the past month or so.  She had hated coming in the beginning; it was simply one more reminder of how far she had fallen from what she considered “the good times.”   But now she looked forward to chatting with the other “po' folk” she found there.  Their stories never ceased to amaze her.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Oh, the usual,” he replied.  “My investments went in the toilet and government regulations pretty much flushed them away.”
The chatter flowed around them like a stream, carrying snippets of conversations.  The aroma was an odd mixture of cooked food, overpowering Jean Nate' from the lady behind Clara, and unwashed body from any number of folks nearby.
“What do you mean by 'rich?'”
“Oh, I was pretty well off.”  He took a hanky out of his pocket, blew his nose then wiped it back and forth.  He stuck the hanky back in his pocket.  “I had a nice house on the Bay and a vacation home up in the Catskills.  A Mercedes-Benz in the garage, thank you very much.  Never did have a yacht, though.  Didn't have time for it.  Too busy making money.”
“Sounds pretty good to me.”
“It was good.  Or at least I thought so at the time.  When I was rich, though, I worried all the time.  I was afraid of burglers.  I was afraid of kidnappers.  I was afraid of losing it all.  I never knew my neighbors.  We all just got in our cars in the morning to go to work, and sometimes we might nod to each other on the way past, but I never even knew most of their names.”
Clara thought about who her neighbors had been on either side of their tract house.  She was surprised that she couldn't remember any of their names.  Now that she lived in low-income senior housing, she knew more people there than she had when she lived with her husband in their modest middle-class home on Mulberry Street.
“I understand that,” she told the old gentleman.  She stuck out her hand.  “My name is Clara.”
He shook her hand, firmly but not overpowering.  “And mine's Chet,” he said.  “Short for Chester.”
“Oh!”  Clara's eyes brightened.  “Like on Gunsmoke!  I used to love that show!”
Chet sighed.  “I get that all the time,” he said, and grinned.  “I don't mind, though.  Chester was one of the good guys, and now that I don't have any money, I like to think I'm a good guy, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, man,” he said, “I used to think I was so all-fired pure.  I'd give a buck to a bum on the street corner and think I'd done my good deed for the week.  I never once looked past the dirt to see the person inside.  Turns out those people was just me, waiting to happen.”
Around them, people were picking up their trays and moving towards the door.  The volunteers were wiping tables and chatting amongst themselves.
“Now, see that one gal over there?  The one with the gray hair and the bun?”
Clara looked and picked out the one Chet had indicated.  “Yes.”
“She used to own “Molly's,” downtown.”
“Molly's?”  Clara was incredulous.  “I used to go there all the time.  I was so bummed when they went out of business.  What happened?”
“Her husband up and left and she couldn't keep up the payments on the place any more.  Then she couldn't keep up the payments on the house any more.  And then she couldn't keep up the payments on the car any more.  She lives in a boarding house across the street.”
“Wow.”
Chet picked up his tray.  “Yep.  She volunteers here four days a week and eats here every day.  I hear she's looking for work, but who wants to hire an old lady any more?”
Clara picked up her own tray and followed Chet to the tray drop off window.
“Well, Miss Clara, it was nice talking with you.”  And Chet went out the door and picked up the sign he had stashed beside the building.  “Homeless.  Need help.”  That's what the sign said.
Clara got in her car and started it, feeling incredibly rich, and more than a little blessed.
“Thank you, God,” she prayed, “for all the blessings you continue to shower into my life.  Thank you for new friends and for people who love me.  Show me, Lord, how I can be of service.”
She sat for a while with the engine running, then turned it off.  She went back inside and found a volunteer worker.
“Excuse me, ma'am,” she said.  “Can you tell me where I can get a volunteer application?”
End