Yeah yeah, I'm bored
a made up story would do just fine
So....
Here we go
(Warning: If you get offended by this, screw you!! hahahaha)
Ken frequented the small bar near China town most every day. The lunchtime crowd would gather around, order beers and hamburgers, and engage in lively, albeit sometimes rude, conversation. They were a motley bunch. The language was rough, and their appearances followed suit. Ken was among the most vocal and often the most obnoxious of the group.
The bartenders hated to see him come. At least the other guys were pleasant and polite to the bartenders and waitresses. Not Ken!!. He had a way about him that irked the girls behind the bar to their very cores.
"He thinks he's so much better than the rest of them," they often remarked.
"See how he dresses?" one said. "He even dresses better than the others to show that he has a higher position at Chinese community."
It was true. Ken's arrogance had won him few friends. No one knew much about him aside from his job and his lunchtime whereabouts. Most of the other guys had been in and out of the bar for years. The girls working there knew their wives' names, their kids' names, and the latest gossip in their lives. But not Ken's. No one knew much about him at all.
Another standout regular at the pub was Hendra a.k.a Paktua. Homeless since his early twenties and suffering from psychotic ailments, Paktua never took his medication, preferring instead to spend his monthly social security check on booze. He slept under an old railroad bridge not far from the bar.
When times got tough – typically just days before his next check would arrive at his mother’s home – Paktua would often wander into the bar and ask for something to eat. That wasn’t all that unusual. The homeless and the transients who were down on their luck often found their way to the bar, where they knew the waitresses would offer them a plate of eggs and toast or a bowl of soup and some bread.
Paktua, however, posed an additional problem. His hygiene was poor. It was downright disgusting. His hair was filthy and matted and most certainly infested with lice. He smelled. He was not the sort of person that paying customers would want to observe as they had their drinks or their meals.
“Come on back here, Paktua,” Tania, the head of bartender usually said, leading him to a small table off to one side of the bar. This is where the help sat to have their coffee or count up their day’s tips. Out of view of most of the customers, it was the best place the girls could find to seat Paktua when he came in cold and hungry.
“Thank you, Tania,” he always answered, his voice feeble and childlike. Paktua kept his head down as he ate, seldom making eye contact with any of the patrons. When he left, one of the girls would thoroughly disinfect the table and chair where he’d had his meal. The dishes would immediately be run through the dishwasher on the special sanitation cycle.
One chilly June day, the head bartender saw Paktua coming, ambling down the sidewalk toward the bar. It was a particularly slow day – a perfect day to serve Paktua a meal without disturbing the customers. There was just one problem. the only patron seated at the bar that day was Ken.
Tania rolled her eyes, knowing that Ken would undoubtedly make rude comments about Paktua. She hoped and prayed that he wouldn’t make these comments to Paktua. She filled Ken’s mug with beer, then headed to the kitchen to place an order for Paktua.
“Paktua’s coming, Rury,” she told the cook. “Have you got any soup left?”. Rury nodded and busied herself preparing a large bowl of hot soup, some rolls, and a small salad.
When Paktua wandered into the bar, Tania noticed that he was limping.
“What did you do to your foot, Paktua?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “It hurts.”
Tania led him to the usual table and brought his food. She kept a nervous eye on Ken and hoped that by filling his mug she’d keep him quiet.
Her hopes were shattered just a minute into Paktua’s meal.
“Hi, young fella,” Ken greeted Paktua.
Tania sucked in her breath, ready to take a shot at the man who would most certainly insult this unfortunate.
“Mind if I join you?” Ken asked him.
“No,” Paktua answered softly.
“What happened to your foot?” he asked.
“I dunno. It’s both feet. They hurt,” Paktua answered.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a bath or a shower?” Ken asked him.
Oh, no. Tania stood perched like a cat ready to pounce, ready for that good-for- nothing Ken to say something that insult Paktua. Ken had probably never gone without a meal or a hot shower one day in his life. How dare he suggest that this poor homeless man was any less of a human being because he had?
“Tania, I’ll be right back,” Ken said, laying a ten dollar bill on the bar next to his mug. “Don’t hurry,” she muttered under her breath, as she took a fresh pot of coffee to Paktua’s table.
Ken wasn’t gone fifteen minutes. Returning to the bar, Tania noticed he carried a paper bag from the store a few doors down.
“Fill ‘er up, Tania,” he said, nodding toward his mug on the bar. “And keep your customers down at that end when they come in.”
The nerve! Who did this guy think he was? He couldn’t tell her where to seat her customers!
What she observed next, however, floored her. Ken went to the kitchen and asked Rury for a large pot. Taking it to the restroom, he emerged with it filled with hot soapy water. Pulling his items from the bag, he then set a bar of soap, a washcloth, some ointment, bandages, and clean socks on Paktua’s table.
“Let’s get those old boots off,” he said to Paktua. He spoke in the sweetest, most gentle voice Tania had ever heard him use.
Paktua complied.
Ken crumbled up the filthy socks – riddled with holes – and stuffed them into the bag from the store.
Tears formed in Tania’s eyes as she watched what happened next.
Delicately, Ken took one of Paktua’s feet in his hands. He dipped the washcloth in the pot of water, lathered it with the fresh bar of soap, and began to tenderly wash Paktua’s foot. Patting it dry with paper towels from the restroom, he proceeded to wash Paktua’s other foot in the same manner.
When both feet were clean and dry, Ken applied ointment and bandages to the swollen, open sores. He then slipped the soft, clean white socks over Paktua’s newly washed and mended feet.
“There,” he said to Paktua. “That should feel much better.”
“It does,” Paktua said humbly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Word spread quickly of what Ken had done for Paktua. Other employees and bar patrons wondered if Tania was making up the story, but when they saw her change in attitude toward the surly customer, they knew she told the truth.
Within weeks they knew more about Ken. He was divorced. He had a son he saw every few weeks and an ex-wife with whom he’d developed a decent friendship. He lived in a rooming house during the week while he worked at the shipyard.
In his hometown he was an imam in his mosque. This struck the girls at the bar as odd; they fully expected an imam not to drink alcohol.
Far more than Paktua’s feet were transformed on that chilly June day. The hearts of several hardened bartenders and waitresses also began softening, too. After that day they didn’t judge quite so quickly and so harshly. For in Ken, they had discovered Moslemlike qualities in someone they had judged to be arrogant and callous, and not a disciple of compassion. They watched him minister to the poor and the sick. They saw all this while they filled his mug with beer and served free hot meals to the least among them.
a made up story would do just fine
So....
Here we go
(Warning: If you get offended by this, screw you!! hahahaha)
Ken frequented the small bar near China town most every day. The lunchtime crowd would gather around, order beers and hamburgers, and engage in lively, albeit sometimes rude, conversation. They were a motley bunch. The language was rough, and their appearances followed suit. Ken was among the most vocal and often the most obnoxious of the group.
The bartenders hated to see him come. At least the other guys were pleasant and polite to the bartenders and waitresses. Not Ken!!. He had a way about him that irked the girls behind the bar to their very cores.
"He thinks he's so much better than the rest of them," they often remarked.
"See how he dresses?" one said. "He even dresses better than the others to show that he has a higher position at Chinese community."
It was true. Ken's arrogance had won him few friends. No one knew much about him aside from his job and his lunchtime whereabouts. Most of the other guys had been in and out of the bar for years. The girls working there knew their wives' names, their kids' names, and the latest gossip in their lives. But not Ken's. No one knew much about him at all.
Another standout regular at the pub was Hendra a.k.a Paktua. Homeless since his early twenties and suffering from psychotic ailments, Paktua never took his medication, preferring instead to spend his monthly social security check on booze. He slept under an old railroad bridge not far from the bar.
When times got tough – typically just days before his next check would arrive at his mother’s home – Paktua would often wander into the bar and ask for something to eat. That wasn’t all that unusual. The homeless and the transients who were down on their luck often found their way to the bar, where they knew the waitresses would offer them a plate of eggs and toast or a bowl of soup and some bread.
Paktua, however, posed an additional problem. His hygiene was poor. It was downright disgusting. His hair was filthy and matted and most certainly infested with lice. He smelled. He was not the sort of person that paying customers would want to observe as they had their drinks or their meals.
“Come on back here, Paktua,” Tania, the head of bartender usually said, leading him to a small table off to one side of the bar. This is where the help sat to have their coffee or count up their day’s tips. Out of view of most of the customers, it was the best place the girls could find to seat Paktua when he came in cold and hungry.
“Thank you, Tania,” he always answered, his voice feeble and childlike. Paktua kept his head down as he ate, seldom making eye contact with any of the patrons. When he left, one of the girls would thoroughly disinfect the table and chair where he’d had his meal. The dishes would immediately be run through the dishwasher on the special sanitation cycle.
One chilly June day, the head bartender saw Paktua coming, ambling down the sidewalk toward the bar. It was a particularly slow day – a perfect day to serve Paktua a meal without disturbing the customers. There was just one problem. the only patron seated at the bar that day was Ken.
Tania rolled her eyes, knowing that Ken would undoubtedly make rude comments about Paktua. She hoped and prayed that he wouldn’t make these comments to Paktua. She filled Ken’s mug with beer, then headed to the kitchen to place an order for Paktua.
“Paktua’s coming, Rury,” she told the cook. “Have you got any soup left?”. Rury nodded and busied herself preparing a large bowl of hot soup, some rolls, and a small salad.
When Paktua wandered into the bar, Tania noticed that he was limping.
“What did you do to your foot, Paktua?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “It hurts.”
Tania led him to the usual table and brought his food. She kept a nervous eye on Ken and hoped that by filling his mug she’d keep him quiet.
Her hopes were shattered just a minute into Paktua’s meal.
“Hi, young fella,” Ken greeted Paktua.
Tania sucked in her breath, ready to take a shot at the man who would most certainly insult this unfortunate.
“Mind if I join you?” Ken asked him.
“No,” Paktua answered softly.
“What happened to your foot?” he asked.
“I dunno. It’s both feet. They hurt,” Paktua answered.
“How long has it been since you’ve had a bath or a shower?” Ken asked him.
Oh, no. Tania stood perched like a cat ready to pounce, ready for that good-for- nothing Ken to say something that insult Paktua. Ken had probably never gone without a meal or a hot shower one day in his life. How dare he suggest that this poor homeless man was any less of a human being because he had?
“Tania, I’ll be right back,” Ken said, laying a ten dollar bill on the bar next to his mug. “Don’t hurry,” she muttered under her breath, as she took a fresh pot of coffee to Paktua’s table.
Ken wasn’t gone fifteen minutes. Returning to the bar, Tania noticed he carried a paper bag from the store a few doors down.
“Fill ‘er up, Tania,” he said, nodding toward his mug on the bar. “And keep your customers down at that end when they come in.”
The nerve! Who did this guy think he was? He couldn’t tell her where to seat her customers!
What she observed next, however, floored her. Ken went to the kitchen and asked Rury for a large pot. Taking it to the restroom, he emerged with it filled with hot soapy water. Pulling his items from the bag, he then set a bar of soap, a washcloth, some ointment, bandages, and clean socks on Paktua’s table.
“Let’s get those old boots off,” he said to Paktua. He spoke in the sweetest, most gentle voice Tania had ever heard him use.
Paktua complied.
Ken crumbled up the filthy socks – riddled with holes – and stuffed them into the bag from the store.
Tears formed in Tania’s eyes as she watched what happened next.
Delicately, Ken took one of Paktua’s feet in his hands. He dipped the washcloth in the pot of water, lathered it with the fresh bar of soap, and began to tenderly wash Paktua’s foot. Patting it dry with paper towels from the restroom, he proceeded to wash Paktua’s other foot in the same manner.
When both feet were clean and dry, Ken applied ointment and bandages to the swollen, open sores. He then slipped the soft, clean white socks over Paktua’s newly washed and mended feet.
“There,” he said to Paktua. “That should feel much better.”
“It does,” Paktua said humbly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Word spread quickly of what Ken had done for Paktua. Other employees and bar patrons wondered if Tania was making up the story, but when they saw her change in attitude toward the surly customer, they knew she told the truth.
Within weeks they knew more about Ken. He was divorced. He had a son he saw every few weeks and an ex-wife with whom he’d developed a decent friendship. He lived in a rooming house during the week while he worked at the shipyard.
In his hometown he was an imam in his mosque. This struck the girls at the bar as odd; they fully expected an imam not to drink alcohol.
Far more than Paktua’s feet were transformed on that chilly June day. The hearts of several hardened bartenders and waitresses also began softening, too. After that day they didn’t judge quite so quickly and so harshly. For in Ken, they had discovered Moslemlike qualities in someone they had judged to be arrogant and callous, and not a disciple of compassion. They watched him minister to the poor and the sick. They saw all this while they filled his mug with beer and served free hot meals to the least among them.
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