There’s something both endearing and simultaneously sad about an old fella in a suit. On my way to work this morning I passed an old hole-in-the-wall of an Irish pub. It was barely 9:00am and through the milky glass door I saw a single patron sitting on a wooden stool, chatting to the bartender with his meaty, liver-splotched hand wrapped around the handle of a pint. The gentleman was decked out in a crisp 1970’s, three-piece, grey, pinstripe suit—complete with a large collared, apricot shirt and a wide paisley tie secured with a opal pin through the center. A matching apricot handkerchief peeked out from his blazer pocket and his worn, black loafers bore a shine that only comes with a fresh coat of polish. His white hair was plastered to one side with what appeared to be a generous dose of Brylcreem. All this, just to sit inside an empty dive bar at 9:00am and chat with the one person willing to listen (albeit while removing stools from table tops and wiping down surfaces). I thought to myself “Here’s a guy with nowhere to go and seemingly, nobody left to share his life’s stories with yet he still makes the effort. He still takes pride in his appearance. He still wants people to know he’s here and he matters.” As I continued walking toward the office, already late for a 9:00am meeting, I happened to look down at my ratty jeans and scuffed sneakers and couldn’t help but feel a mixture of guilt and shame.
