Aura
At the shelter this morning I restock the toiletries. The toiletries at the shelter once tired and vexed me. So many, in so many kinds of containers, in so many sizes, so hard to organize and store. Bottles, cans, tubes. Pumps, sprays, flip-tops. Thirty-two ounce, travel-size. Liquids, bars, powders, pastes. In cabinets, on counter-tops, in cubbies and caddies, in plastic bins, shelves, in plastic bins on shelves, on top of the cabinets. And boxes.
One afternoon Tommy came by. “Do you have any after-shave?” he asked. He wore a plaid vest and Mardi Gras beads. Tommy has fine features and fine blonde, chin-length hair.
On top of a table by the door I saw three small, clear plastic bottles, each with a black cap, each holding a different color liquid. “Red, blue, or green?” I asked Tommy.
“Let’s take a look at the red one,” he said. I handed him the bottle. He turned it in his hand to read the label. “‘Chivalry,’” he said, “let’s go with that – that’s how I feel today.” Tommy unscrewed the cap, sprinkled his palms, patted his cheeks, and then ran his hands along his neck. He re-capped the bottle and handed it back to me. “Thank you,” he said.
When I sign a man into the online roster at the front desk I ask him where they spent the night. I record his answer from the options on a drop-down list next to his name – Street, Jail, Other Shelter. After Tommy left that afternoon I went through the cabinets, the cubbies, the bins, the shelves, and the boxes, to find a few more choices.
This afternoon after I finish unloading bottles of liquid soap a man in a faded red flannel shirt and floppy gray felt hat comes by. He’s rolled his sleeves halfway up his forearms. Beaded string bracelets circle his wrists. Letters tattooed on his fingers are too faded for me to read.
He asks for cotton swabs. “Thank you, God bless you,” he says. He asks for a few flossers. “Thank you, God bless you,” he says. He asks for some Brut. “Thank you, God bless you,” he says when I give him the shiny, dark green bottle. He splashes some onto the palms of his hands and rubs his cheeks. “Whew!” he says. “Stings!”
He asks for some conditioner. “Is it thick?” he wonders. I squirt some into a small flowered Dixie cup. “May I have more?” he asks. “Maybe another cup? I have a lot of hair.” He turns to show a long ponytail of frizzy brown hair that reaches almost to his waist. I hand him two more cups of conditioner. “Thank you, God bless you,” he says.
“Do you need anything?” he asks, tucking the cotton swabs into a small plastic bag.
“No, thanks,” I say, “I’m all set.”
“I like your aura,” he says. “Thank you, God bless you.”
As he leaves I realize I recognize him from a morning a few weeks ago when I was at the front desk. “In a perfect world,” he had said, “I would love some socks and something to eat.” I handed him a pair of white socks and a sack lunch. “I hope it’s something sweet!” he said. “I love you all to pieces and little bits!”
Having an aura does not tire and vex me.
Polly Walker Blakemore is a writer living in Louisville, KY. You may also find her work on Substack at @pollywalkerblakemore, where she writes to discover, honor, and share the human in humanity.