On the day that our ceiling caved in, I gave a chocolate bar to a crying teenaged boy outside The Coffee Bean. The #6 bus had gotten caught behind a cable car, and it took so long to trundle down Market Street that I had enough time to send out approximately 10 text messages, all of which revolved either around my best friend’s strange sex life or the fact that my boyfriend and I had to evacuate our apartment building at 6am because of a suspected gas leak.
The bus stopped at 4th and Stockton and I became so fed up with its crawling speed that I hopped out and decided to get caffeinated at The Coffee Bean instead of Starbucks. This decision seems innocuous, except that if I had stayed on the bus until my real stop, or if that day’s Obama event hadn’t stalled all of the Muni lines, or if my ceiling hadn’t caved in at 5 that morning, I never would have seen the crying teenaged boy in a camouflage hoodie.
I lived in New York for five years, where people are notorious for mistaking the anonymity of a large city for a good enough excuse to cry in public, but still it is weird for me to see teenaged boys cry. I don’t remember ever witnessing any of them cry in high school, not even my then-boyfriend, who broke up with me with the detachment and professionalism of a doctor announcing a terrible diagnosis. It happened in his parents’ basement. Suddenly he was like, “So we haven’t made out yet today, maybe we should just be friends now.” I was trying to play it cool so I was like, “Okay,” and then started sputtering like a steam kettle and waited for fifteen painfully shameful minutes in his living room for my Stepmother to pick me up.
He didn’t cry that day; only I did.
But this teenaged boy was crying at The Coffee Bean. He was probably 17 or 18 or 19 and he was with someone who could’ve been his father or his Uncle. I have received a lot of bad news recently, particularly in regards to people I love becoming very sick, so my immediate thought was that his mother had died or was dying. But I am projecting: maybe he just didn’t make the basketball team or something.
Whatever the case his face was very red and very blotchy; he had that tender look around his eyes that all people, regardless of gender or race or age, get when they are sad.
In line at The Coffee Bean I debated about what to buy him. First I thought maybe a cookie would work, but what if he had one of those annoyingly middle class gluten allergies? Finally I decided on a chocolate bar because all people, regardless of gender or race or age, need chocolate when they are sad.
On my way out of the coffee shop I set it on his table and said matter-of-factly, “Here you go.” The older man he was with looked at me with a confused face. I shrugged and said, “I saw that you were sad so I thought you could use this.”
Another thing that teenaged boys don’t normally do besides cry in public is give genuinely sweet, emotional hugs to strange girls who randomly offer them chocolate. But that’s what he did. He shot up and said, “Thank you!” with this bright look on his face and gave me one of the best hugs I have had in awhile.
I didn’t want to make him feel awkward or feel like he had to talk to me about why he was crying so after the hug I said “I hope you feel better” and then walked to work.
Our ceiling caved in this morning but when people are getting cancer and teenaged boys are so sad that they cry in public I guess small things like water damage don’t seem so bad.
(Images via)
I really liked this! I’m going to bookmark it to read whenever I need a bit of perspective.
Aw, thanks Donna
amazing. that was so kind of you.