Sometimes angels manifest themselves in ordinary and familiar forms.
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I’d known Matthew since high school. He had an uncanny sense for when I was about to hit bottom: he’d stop by and invite me to join him for lunch at the local pizza joint. I’d tell him I had no money. He’d say come along anyway and keep him company.
I sold my books to a used bookstore. I sold my high school class ring. I sold the family Bible, the one in which births and deaths had been recorded for generations.
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I was always hungry in college. After tuition and a room deposit had sapped me of my summer earnings, little was left for food. The only job I could get was delivering the college newspaper at $55 a week. I sold everything of value. When I ran out of things to sell I went as long as two days at a time without eating. Matthew was all that stood between me and starvation.
Once inside the pizza joint I’d be overcome by the aromas. All that delicious tomato sauce. Dough rising in the oven. Cheese, onions, garlic. We’d choose a table assigned to Cheryl, our favorite waitress. She’d take Matthew’s order, which was always a large thick-crusted pizza with double toppings. I’d warn him he wouldn’t be able to eat it all and he’d say “Watch me.” Sure enough, he’d only get halfway through before pooping out, then he’d utter the magic words:
“If you don’t eat the rest it’ll just get thrown away.”
“You could take it home with you and heat it up later,” I’d argue.
“No, I don’t like pizza that way. It has to be fresh. Please, eat up. I wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
Mid semester I got fired from the newspaper job. Migraines were keeping me up late, and I was unable to make it to work at 5:00 a.m. after blissfully falling asleep at 3:00. I dropped all but two of my courses, the two I was doing best in. I sold my books to a used bookstore. I sold my high school class ring. I sold the family Bible, the one in which births and deaths had been recorded for generations.
“Take the leftovers home,” I’d tell Matthew. “Heat them in the microwave.”
“No,” he’d say, “eat up. As a favor to me. I wouldn’t want it to go to waste.”
I lost the will to do anything about it. I stayed in bed most of the time, wearing my coat and shoes for warmth, waiting for each day to mercifully end.
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Cold weather came. I discovered the heater in my room didn’t work. I complained to the landlord, who gave me a space heater. It didn’t work either. I lost the will to do anything about it. I stayed in bed most of the time, wearing my coat and shoes for warmth, waiting for each day to mercifully end. I’d go outside to check the mailbox, but it was always empty. Nevertheless the daily ritual contributed purpose to my life.
Don’t let it go to waste.
Matthew told me he was spending Thanksgiving at home with his parents. He asked if I’d be okay. Of course I would, I said. Peachy keen. Don’t mind me. Have a good time.
Thanksgiving Day I spent in bed, wearing street clothes and winter coat, waiting for a scornful sun to get out of sight. There was no point in checking the mail; the mailmen were all home eating turkey and stuffing. And sweet potatoes. Cornbread. Cranberries.
The day after Thanksgiving I resolved to leave my room. I opened a desk drawer and removed the last article of value I owned, a pouch full of Indian head nickels I’d collected as a boy. It was time to spend those nickels, and I knew exactly what I wanted for them.
I went to the pizza place. It felt funny sitting at a table by myself. Cheryl came by and asked if I preferred to wait for Matthew before ordering. No, I told her, he’s gone home for the holidays; it’s only me today. I checked the menu. I had just enough money, in the form of Indian head nickels, to buy an order of garlic bread (with cheese!) and a small diet soft drink. I placed the order with Cheryl.
“That’s what you want?” she asked. “Garlic bread?”
“With cheese.”
I stared out the window at snowflakes falling to earth and thought, one more stroke of bad luck, one more stumble, and I was going to chuck college and go home.
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While waiting for the food to come I stared out the window. I’d always thought we made our own beds to sleep in. I was sleeping in mine. I was spending my coin collection on an order of garlic bread (with cheese) to feed a persistent and uncompromising hunger. The only way things could get worse is if I got kicked out of my room for not paying rent. Or if I flunked a course. Or maybe if the Indian head nickels turned out to be counterfeit. I stared out the window at snowflakes falling to earth and thought, one more stroke of bad luck, one more stumble, and I was going to chuck college and go home. It was time to change beds.
Cheryl returned from the kitchen with a pizza and set it on my table. It was big, it was steaming. It smelled good.
“But, but, but—”
She handed me an envelope. Inside was a note:
Dear Cheryl: Enclosed is $20. If Steve shows up this weekend please order us a large thick-crusted pizza with double toppings. Tell him not to wait for me; I wouldn’t want it to go to waste. — Matthew.
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Photo: Getty Images