Living in excess

As I entered the Einstein Bagel Shop in Downtown Denver, I noticed it was much more crowded than the day before. The tables were mostly full, and there was a cart in the middle of the room. I immediately could tell by its contents that it contained the possessions of someone who was living off the streets, despite its overall tidiness and worn cleanliness. There were many musical instruments on it, so I thought it probably belonged to one of the street musicians that play on the 16th Street Mall. I got into line, and as I waited, I looked over the contents, trying to identify the different musical instruments based upon the shapes of the colorful, handmade cases that covered them. I could clearly identify a guitar and what looked like a drum or two, but the other shapes were too odd for me to guess their contents.

When I got close to the counter, I focused my attention back on preparing to order my breakfast. The person in front of me was counting change, and when it came time for him to order, he asked to buy one of the miniature bagels on the bottom shelf of the display case. The tag on the window advertised the price as 2 for 99 cents. The worker at the counter informed him that he couldn't buy just one, that he had to buy two. He nodded, politely thanked the worker, and left the line. My heart began to ache as he walked over to the cart and carefully maneuvered the cart out of the busy shop. I felt horrible as I realized that he probably would have no breakfast that day, at least not one that included the incredibly delicious bagels from Einsteins.

While the worker prepared my order, I thought about the privileged existence I live. I recognized that some of what I have is based on my own merit—the decades of hard work I put into education and the menial jobs I worked at to support myself and my family while doing it. But that didn't change the fact that I now live a life of excess. Here I was, living on a generous travel allowance and eating much more than I really needed at almost every meal, while someone who was probably much hungrier than I didn't have the few coins necessary to eat even a meager breakfast. My breakfast of excess this morning cost just $2.14. Surely he was worth that much.

I hurried to catch up with him. I tried to give him some money so that he could buy breakfast, but he said he would rather earn it than just take it. He pulled out a small wooden instrument with metal tines and began to play. To me, it sounded like noise, not music, and I have to admit that I felt impatience. I wanted to get back to my hotel so that I could get ready for the meetings I was going to attend that day. I just wanted to hand him the money and be done. He finally finished. I quickly gave him the money, and then I was off. I didn't look back. My heart had shut tight again, and I walked down the street as if nothing had happened. Certainly nothing had really changed.