One of my customer was a street-sweeper. Always in a jolly mood, he comes to the store almost everyday to buy a book to read. Always smiling but never too eager to share his thoughts, he just say thank you after paying and leave whistling his favorite songs. He was just one of the usual customer, a familiar face whose life remained a mystery, until one day when he came to the store sullen and in a very sad mood.
He's been a customer for almost 3 years then, and we hardly exchanged pleasantries, just nods and sly smiles. That day was different, he looked sad, and finally broke ice with a story to share. He told me he was not actually sad but just unsure of what to do next. His son, whom he haven't spoken to for many years paid him a visit and invited him to attend his grandson's wedding. He was not actually broke that time but reluctant to attend the wedding, not because he has nothing to bring him with but because he'll get to see some faces he has not seen for many years.
He related that he was released from prison some three years ago, given a job as a street-sweeper by the son of one his former cellmate. Knowing that his former wife has already a new family, he decided to keep things quiet, visited their place not to meet them, but just to catch glimpse of her and their son who too had a family of his own. Thirty years have separated them and it was no surprise to him that nobody recognized him, though he had an idea who some of them were. That's one good thing in the city, people walk with blank stares, and not notice a lot of faces they come to meet on the streets.
He survived prison life by keeping his own private space, reading and praying most of the time. He was a frail and small in stature that gangs inside considered him a nobody and dismissed him as one harmless guy who would not be an asset as a gang member. So he was not forced to join any of them. He was very thankful that he was able to maintain his sanity and even gained some wisdom by keeping himself occupied with books, mostly given to him by visiting relatives of his cellmate-brothers in faith. He decided not to disrupt the life of his old family when he got out. His parents were both dead, and with no one else to go back to, he found a spot under the MRT station and called it home.
That day he was not actually sad, just unsure of what he would do next. The family of the guy he killed over three decades ago still reside in the community, and he was uneasy about facing them. His son, though maintaining a distance while they talked, seemed happy to see him. But he was unsure about his former wife, for he was but a burden to him then. His old drinking buddies were all dead except one, and some old relatives who were not actually very fond of him then. Surely, he was afraid of all the reactions he would receive.
I barely spoke a word for I know my advice to him won't matter much. I was probably the closest thing he could call a friend, and until then, I knew nothing about the guy. I handed him a book, " The Birdman of Alcatraz " - a true to life story of a notorious convict who actually died in Alcatraz prison but found redemption in treating bird ailments. He was called the "doctor of birds". I told him it was a gift, which he graciously thanked me for and told me he would return to tell me what happened after the wedding.
He returned a week later, happy about the outcome, how well he was received by his old friends and glad that he felt he was forgiven for his sins of the past. He decided not to accept the invitation for him to return to his old place not only because he fear that he might disrupt the "normal situation" they then enjoy. Somehow he got used to the situation of being alone, with books to keep him company. From then on, he came to ask me for feel-good books that I could recommend to him for reading, and everyday I set aside one for him. He continued coming to the store for a few more months, then I heard that he fell ill one day and was taken by his son. I never even got to know his name - we just call each other "pards".
I guess that one of the reason why I have stuck with books even when it is no longer as profitable as it was before. I've had a lot of unnamed friends with whom I got to share with some of the lessons we pick up from our everyday way of life. "Pards", the street-sweeper, found peace cleaning other people's mess, not bitter about how unconcerned they are with others, and just pick up what they throw away. He got dirtied but inside he felt clean, knowing that he has paid for the crime he had committed, and that the people who were hurt by his deeds no longer held those grudge against him. He was about five years older than I was, yet looked at me with respect, knowing that somehow our lives were connected. I learned something from him and I shared with him some of the goods I earned.
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