Tuesdays with Jessie

It's Tuesday. I'm sitting at our table. The one right next to the restroom of our coffee shop. It's not even a table, really. Two green stools sitting by each other and a wooden bar fixed to the glass panel. Perfect to place our drinks and our special treat. The window looks out to a back alley. Most people would think this is an unusual choice. Having the beautiful view of the walkway by the Thames, why on Earth would two people choose to sit looking at the garbage bins in the alley? A place which most people in London choose to ignore. As all abandoned, sketchy alleys in the city.

As I sit half-spinning on my stool, I can't help but stare at the door. Waiting for Jessie to arrive. This little ritual has become an important part of my life.

I remember the first time we walked into this place. It seems so long ago. Only a few steps in and heads started turning. The two of us together? I guess that was a transgression of social expectations. Some alarmed glances at the staff and a few uncomfortable faces. Why? I'll never understand. Scratch that. I do understand. Sadly, I'm aware of how the world works. In fact, I was also uneasy around him that day. A result of my own social conditioning. But so much has changed since then.

"I wan shockl caae". I can picture Jessie so clearly. Mumbling grumpily, pointing at the baked treats on the counter. Impatient as always, touching the glass that covered them.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that", I said carefully, trying to gauge his reaction.

"I want that chocolate cake", he said again, staring intently at the silky, brown slice. Later, I found out that chocolate cake is his favourite because it reminds him of happy moments in his childhood. Sharing a sweet, homemade piece with his "Nan", sitting by an old pear tree in her garden.

"Oh, of course! Anything to drink?", I offered as I saw the line beginning to grow behind us.

"Black tea with milk". His words were still unclear, but somehow I made them out quickly enough.

"Great", I turned to the cashier. "Then a black tea with milk, a cappuccino and a slice of chocolate cake, please".

"Coffee is s**t". That I understood. Loud and clear. The lady behind us looked up from her phone, eyes wide.

"Really? I actually like it a lot." Small talk is my go-to when I'm nervous.

"Well, that's b...", it sounded like the beginning of a rant.

"But, you know what? I'll join you with a peppermint tea", I cut him off before he could continue. I have never been good with conflict, and I didn't want to argue with the guy about coffee. "Please", I told the cashier, offering an apologetic smile.

As I paid, the cashier stared him up and down. Then he turned to me. 'Peter' was typed on his name tag. He looked slightly scared and mostly puzzled. I could tell he was evaluating the situation. Should he ask me if I need help? Should he call his manager? Should he ask us to leave? He could have. I'm glad he didn't, that would've been an uncomfortable talk. Mostly for him, though. Honestly, Jessie wasn't looking great those days. His hair was completely disheveled and some unintentional dreadlocks were starting to form. His toes were peaking out of his left shoe. He smelled like alcohol and something else. The kind of scent that gives people a frown. On top of that, his classic "fork off" attitude was sure to scare off a few people. I didn't blame them. But, I especially didn't blame Jessie for it.

I recall walking toward the two last empty love seats by the window, overlooking the Thames and the Blackfriars bridge.

"I don't want to sit there". Before I could reply he was already walking to the back of the cafe, stopping by the restroom-adjacent table.

"No one wants to see an ugly, old mug like me". I feel the words punch me in the stomach again, as they do every time they come to my mind. I didn't know what to say at the time. I mean, what does anyone reply to that? Especially to someone one has just met.

After that first time, we kept coming back. To talk about life. The good things and the hard things. It was not always easy. I learned that Jessie was sensitive about others staring at him. Behind his tough "I don't care" attitude he was insecure. He cared. And it hurt him sometimes. I could tell. Why wouldn't it? He was not wrong in wanting to protect himself. People can be unforgiving and judgmental.

Memories of that day, when we tried to go to an art exhibition, still flood my brain. A great thing about being a student in London is knowing the best tips to get into places for free. That one time, I found this free-entry preview for some paintings by "the great masters", like Monet and Picasso, before they were auctioned to private buyers.

"Well, it'll probably be full of fancy and pretentious people, but the paintings are beautiful. And everyone is allowed in... if you want to go". As I said it, his eyes flashed with something. Maybe curiosity?

"Whatever, fine", he said trying to sound tough and careless, as usual. I thought he would say no.

"We don't have to...". I offered, but he stopped me instantly.

"I said it's fine, yeah?". I still wonder if he genuinely wanted to go.

I was brooding on the way there, thinking I had made a huge mistake. It was a stupid idea. What was I thinking? How did the topic even come up? All those snobby people and millions of pounds spent on ego. How would Jessie feel about that? But he seemed strangely motivated, maybe about trying something new. About being part of something 'normal'. As we got closer, he discreetly tried to comb his long, grey-covered hair with his hands. Then he patted his worn-down clothes, right before getting to the door. It didn't make a difference.

We were not allowed in. Art is not for everyone, as it turns out.

We never talked about it again. But I know it hurt him. A little piece of him broke. A few weeks later, the drinking began again. My nails are digging into my palms. I'm back at the coffee shop. Fists clenched. Just the thought of that moment makes my skin crawl and my blood boil. I can't bear to think about it.

"The usual?". Right on cue, Peter saves me from my thoughts. He's always here on Tuesday afternoons. Well, except that one time when his girlfriend gave birth to twins. "Waiting for Jessie?"

"Yeah...", I try to give him a smile, and he does the same. His lips form a tight line and a friendly wink reaches me. Peter is one of those genuinely nice people. That's what Jessie always says. "How are your girls?"

"Oh, they're great. A handful, but great." I can tell by the dark circles under his eyes. But he looks happy. A typical new dad. "I can't believe they're already three months old."

"That's crazy!", as I say it, my mind travels to that December. The week when the twins were born. Jessie was all bright and hopeful. Speaking wonders about babies and the future. He was the face of Christmas spirit. When his cheeks looked pink and healthy. His blue eyes like sparkling tree lights. He was clean and sober. He reminded me a little bit about those Santa Clause figurines that are everywhere during the holiday season.

He had just gotten a free Polaroid photo from one of the art buskers by the river that day. He said he wanted to send it to his sister for Christmas. A sister? Family? I was confused. Why hadn't he mentioned her before? And why wasn't she there to help him? Why didn't he go to her?

The clinking sound of ceramic teacups and the smell of chocolate fill my senses. Blinking slowly, my eyes regain focus on the present. They are again fixed on the entryway. Someone is coming in, but it's not Jessie. I feel off today. I didn't even notice when Peter walked away and came back with our usual order.

"I really hope he comes today", he says quietly, offering me another half-smile before turning away.

"Me too". But he's gone. I'm the only one there to hear my words.

The last time I saw Jessie things were very different to that Christmas. The shine in his eyes was gone and the cynical attitude was back. After all those weeks opening up about himself, he shut down again. It was not a single thing that caused it, it built up over time. The art exhibition. The shelter throwing away his favorite shoes and replacing his clothes. His sister, his only family, ignoring his letters. The police forbidding him from sitting at the walkway. Being beaten and mugged by a group of teenage vandals.

I found out about it a week later. Those were the moments when I was reminded just how different Jessie's life is. When I wish I could do more. He doesn't have a phone. He can't afford it, so I have no way of reaching him when he's gone. To know if he's okay. He has no way of finding me. Except that's not true. He knows I'm here every Tuesday, waiting for him. For our tea and cake. For our talks. But he hasn't shown.

It's been a month and reality hits me again. I take my last bite of chocolate cake as my heart drops to my stomach. "He's not coming". It feels wrong to finish the whole thing on my own, so I leave half of it as I have done these past weeks.

"Please, let him be okay", the whisper of a wish traveling the distance.

That first day by the window, I didn't know how much Tuesdays would come to mean to me. Two teas and a slice of cake, sitting with Jessie by the alley. Will we see each other again?

Maybe next week.

---

Homelessness is a serious issue experienced by thousands of people who have to face social stigma on top of terrible dangers and obstacles every day. Let's advocate for better policies against homelessness in our communities. In the first instance, let's at least learn to be kinder to those who experience it. Everyone deserves to be seen for who they are.

This story is a work of fiction, but it was inspired by real people.

---

Thank you for reading! This story is close to my heart. If you liked it, please leave a ♥️ (if you're a Vocal member), a tip, or share it with your friends and family. Every bit of support means a lot to me as a writer.

You may also like: