Camping

The brass shopkeeper’s bell tinkled to announce the late night customer and the blast of arctic air that preceded him through the open door. The “bell of opportunity” my granddad called it. His own granddad built this general store when our family first came to this town. His dad stacked produce when he was a kid. So did granddad. I started tending the front counter for him when I was only fourteen. I hated that bell. 

The man slid a package of D batteries across the counter to me as I tapped the keys on the register. He pulled one ski glove off and reached into his pocket for his wallet.

“You know there’s an old homeless guy out front begging for change.” He said. He nodded out the front window.

“Yeah.” I said taking the bills from his hand.  “Don’t give him any.  He’s an addict.” I spared a glance out the window at the bare head of a man sitting on an empty newspaper box, the snow swirling about him. 

The man pocketed the batteries and change. “I hear you,” he said amiably. “But you’ll have a bumsickle out there by morning.” His eyes searching mine for a flicker of compassion.

“He’ll be fine,” I said through thin lips.

The bell tinkled again as the man left. When granddad suddenly passed, I took over the business to keep the roof over Mom’s head. The same leaking roof that granddad had built for grandma decades ago. That bell was the death knell of my opportunity.

I watched through the window as the customer stopped at the panhandler’s side and handed him the change I made.

“Dammit,” I whispered to myself.

The bell over the transom tinkled again as the old man opened the door in a swirl of snow. He approached the counter with his hand outstretched to show me the recycled coins.  

“Can I get a cup of coffee?” he asked. His eyes searching mine.

“It’s stale,” I said flatly. 

“That’s fine,” he said.  “I’m not going to drink it. I just want to warm my hands.”

I relented. “Just the coffee.”

“Right. Then I’m gone,” he replied.

I poured him a cup from behind the counter. He took the cup and headed for the door and that damn bell.

“Wait,” I said.

He turned around with the look of a hopeful dog.

“You can’t sleep out there in this.” I gestured through the window to the white blast outside. “The cot is set up in the back.”

I locked the shop door and led him to the room behind the counter.

He sat down on the cot and wrapped his coat around himself. I punched grandma’s throw pillow and laid down on the ratty sofa. 

“Just like camping,” he chuckled softly.

I rolled over to face him.

“Yeah, just like camping” I said between yawns.

“Do you remember when I used to take you camping?” He asked hopefully.

“Yeah, Dad.” I sighed. “I do.”