Day 22. Smother 'Em With Smiles

Mr. Mean Man comes in almost every day for lunch. Has for decades, I’ve been told. He sits at the same table, orders the same dish, and barks the same snide complaints about “the service in this place” if someone attempts to clear his empty plate too soon.

“He sure is grouchy,” I told Patricia one morning. She smiled knowingly, “Yes, he does not make many smiles, that one. Always angry.”

But where there is anger, I see pain. And unfortunately for Mr. Mean Man, who probably just wants to eat his Big Breakfast in peace, where there is pain, I see (insert jazz hands) PROJECT!

This is a man who needs me, I’d convinced myself a couple weeks prior. He is trapped in a bitter body and just wants to be happy.

I was determined to make him smile.

It didn’t have to be a big, cheesy, beaming smile. I would settle for a small, knowing, close-mouthed grin if that’s all he could give me. But I would make him smile. If it was the last thing I’d do at this wretched restaurant, I would brighten old Mean Man’s day.

I implemented a simple strategy I picked up from Meg at the Pub back home. “Kill ‘em with kindness,” she would say, if I were handling a customer with a particular large stick up their you-know-what.

“How are you doing today, sir?” I’d ask every morning, a smile flashed from ear to ear. Most days he furrowed his brow in confusion—or contempt—and then looked away. Occasionally I got a gruff response: a nod of the head in acknowledgement, a short reply of “good” or “fine.”

One time, though, I even heard him mumble, “Well I’m still alive, aren’t I?” He was making a joke! And I was making progress.

On this particular day, the Mean Man’s regular table was occupied when he shuffled in for lunch. He sat down elsewhere, looking rather displeased.

“Goodmorning!” I beamed, dimples like craters against my puffy cheeks. “Somebody’s in your spot, today.” He looked unimpressed.

“I have a second spot,” he replied gruffly, unfolding his napkin onto his lap. “The Big—” he began to say, but I cut him off.

“You’ll have the Big Breakfast, lightly fried eggs, lightly fried toast,” I recited. “I know.”

And just like that his eyes grew wide and a thin smile formed across his hardened face. I was so pleased I almost forgot to leave and put in his order. An awkward pause later, I scurried to the computer, then over to Patricia.

“Patricia!” I whispered excitedly. I was practically jumping up and down. “I made the Mean Man smile.”

She laughed. At my naiveté, perhaps, or the childishness of my simple game. But then she told me of his hard battle with alcoholism, and of the things she’s seen over the years.

“A long time ago, everyday he come in morning and night. Sometimes he drink too much. Most times he drink too much. All hours into the night, but now, no more. He stop drinking and always is angry.”

My heart ached, and I was filled with a desire to make him smile every day.

When he had finished every last morsel of his Big Breakfast, Mean Man got up to leave. “Have a wonderful day,” Smily, smily. Grin, grin.

“Ahh, thank you,” he replied calmly. AHH! HE THANKED ME! You’re welcome, I thought to myself. But I couldn’t will the words out of my head. Instead I just stared in disbelief, as he walked out the door and into the sharp sunlight.

Maybe I needed a little more work on this whole being-his-best-friend-forever thing…

With love,

the traveling stahr…