Before I took up writing, I owned a restaurant, and behind it was a dumpster area covered by a large canopy. It was not a locked area, so often homeless people would sleep there when the weather was bad, when it was raining, or when the sun was simply too hot. It was a good shady place.
For a while, a homeless couple began living back there. They were not too old, but neither were they young. Probably in their early 50s, but honestly, they were probably younger because street life ages people.
One day, they found a broken broom and used it to sweep the area around the trash cans and along the side of the building where the dumpster entrance was. On that side of the restaurant, I had an old door with small windows, the kind you might see on a house. They found a welcome mat and placed it in front of the door.
After a while, I saw them back there and went to speak with them. Their names were Ray and Irene.
I asked them if they wanted to do some work for money, and they said yes. Ray would clean my carpets, and Irene would wash the windows. I always overpaid them because I knew they did not have regular jobs and might never come back.
But they did come back.
They usually arrived on Mondays. Whenever they did not show up, I was surprised, though sometimes they missed a week. Most of the time, however, they were there every Monday.
I never checked their work, but I am sure they did a good job. I already knew something about them from the way they swept the area behind the restaurant and placed the welcome mat beside the building. They were proud people. They cared about the place where they were staying, even though it was beside a dumpster.
After they finished working, I would also offer them food. I told them they could have beer with their meal if they wanted it. They accepted beer the first day, but after that, they never asked for it again. I am fairly sure they spent at least some of the money on alcohol after they left, perhaps even most of it, but they never drank inside my restaurant.
When they walked out the door, Irene would often begin yelling at Ray. Maybe about where they were going or where they were going to spend the money. And let me tell you, Irene would curse at him and argue with almost anything he said. She was a rugged woman. But inside my restaurant, she was always kind to me and treated me with great respect. A true lady.
That was simply who they were.
Another homeless man named Doug also sometimes slept behind the restaurant. I mentioned him in another blog post, “Needed Yesterday.” One day, I had him doing some work inside. Doug was not as able-bodied or as sharp as Ray, so I gave him simpler chores.
Later that same day, Ray and Irene arrived, and I was going to give them work as well.
Almost immediately, Ray began circling Doug like a rooster protecting a hen. He would not leave Doug alone in the room with Irene. He paced around him with his eyes wide and focused, never taking them off Doug.
Ray was a small man, only five feet and something, while Doug was well over six feet tall. Yet Doug was openly afraid of him.
After a while, Doug became uncomfortable and left.
Ray turned to me and said, “Don’t do that. That’s a bad man.”
I told him, “Men are just men.” Looking back, I should have paid more attention. Maybe Ray knew something I did not.
Soon after that, Ray and Irene stopped coming.
Then one day, Ray returned with a group of men who worked on metal buildings. He had found a job with them.
He also told me that Irene had died.
I asked him why he had not come back to visit me. He did not answer that question, but we discussed other things, so I knew he wasn’t angry with me.
I came to believe that he stayed away because the restaurant reminded him of his beloved Irene and the life they had shared there. It was a place where they had worked together, eaten together, and returned every Monday together. It was painful for him to come back.
I have taken up writing since then. I have written blog posts about the best time to give and why that time is right now. I have also written about not waiting until it is too late.
In Irene’s case, I did not wait until it was too late. I met her before she died.
This time, I am writing about something different.
So, who was Irene? Was she the rugged, cussing woman I saw outside the restaurant? Was she the perfect lady who was polite and kind inside? Or was she someone else entirely—the woman only Ray truly knew?
Although I knew Irene, I never truly knew her.
And now I never will—not in the way Ray knew and loved her.
Albert Jr.
Author of The Nature Within Us
Side Trails🐇🥚🔥
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