Christmas Cabeceo

His name is Darrell or Daryl, though I don’t know that yet, and he’s standing at the bus stop next to the convenience store/gas station where I am cleaning off the last bits of snow from my car.

As I finish up, I hear a voice: Are you OK? Then again, Are you OK? I look to see who needs help. He is talking to me.

He’s a big boy: 6 foot, 3 inches, maybe more, maybe as tall as Keith. He’s built like a football player, the kind that knocks the other guys over.

“I’m good,” I call back.

He is not dressed for the snowstorm. His pants droop and drag in the slush. His jacket is unzipped, and under it he is not wearing a sweater. His hair is wet, his face is patchy red. His nose is running. He is holding a coffee cup in a chapped, dirty hand, the plastic thermal kind with a lid.

This is not fair! He is only 16, maybe 17.

Before he asks, before he knows for sure he is going to ask, my answer is yes.

I look him in the eye.

Are you going that way? He points.

Sure, I say. Tell me where.

It is not far. Only to the 7-11 up the street. To get coffee. He speaks slowly, as if his lips are frozen. But they are not. It is not that cold today, only windy with snow.

He moves my Christmas presents from the front seat to the back, climbs in. We introduce ourselves and shake hands.

Why don’t you get your coffee right here, at this convenience store? I ask.

I can’t go in there any more.

Why not?

He shrugs. The way I dress.

I doubt that.

And that one? I point to the convenience store on the opposite corner.

He shrugs.

We drive to 7-11. It is only one mile. Along the way, we learn these things about each other:

There are six kids in my family, seven in his. Five boys in his, five girls in mine. One boy in mine, two girls in his.

As I pull into the 7-11 parking lot, we discover we are both number 4 in the birth order.

“Wow!” he says happily. “We have something in common!”

He says thanks and we say Merry Christmas over and over while he heaves himself out of the car.

I head back the way I came. My car stinks. A mess of gray sludge has dropped from his boots onto the floor mat and carpet.

Now, hours later, prevented by the storm from going to tango, I’m grinning about this: Here’s a kid who got out of the wind-driven snow, saved enough money in bus fare to buy a nice snack, got to his coffee a half hour sooner than he would have on the bus … and here is the thing that delighted him, the thing that made him say happily “Wow!”: We are both number 4.

Cabeceo.