I don't look because I'm pretty certain of what I'll see

She was new, or at least she was new to me. She was sitting in the have-a-nice-day guy's place; she may have even been using his milk crates for a seat.

I chose not to really hear what she had to say as I walked by but what I did hear was as statement about the Godiva Chocolatier bag I had. But then how could she not have noticed it? The thing was shiny gold and must look huge as it swings at arms length nearly scraping along the traversed sidewalk beneath it. But I had chewing gum to buy so I ignored her, or at least did my best to look like I had.

In Seven Eleven I was standing behind a homeless looking man counting out change for his Lays Sour Cream & Onion potato chips. Behind him was some other asshole like me wishing he was just hurry up. I peeled two one dollar bills from the roll I had in preparation for my turn at the register and when I looked up, the homeless guy was still determined to find enough change.

It was probably a lack of patience and not a burst of compassion that caused me to start to debate on whether or not to pay for his purchase. The sticking point was that I wasn't next in line, it would be ridiculous to pay for the chips and not pay for my gum at the same time but if I did that, then I would be effectively cutting the line and the guy in front of me didn't look like the charitable type.

My debating ended when the guy finally gave up hope on having enough pocket change and pulled out some bills. I caught glimpse of a ten, two fives and several ones. "He doesn't need my charity today" is what crossed my mind followed by "What about her?"

The cash I had in my pocket was pretty much spoken for, I had an open ended commitment to have a drink or two with a former bartender of mine on her birthday at her new place of employment. I didn't know how much my endeavor was going to set me back. But what I did have was premium chocolates. After I picked out what I wanted at Godiva's the total came up five dollars short of me getting a free box of chocolates. The cashier was kind enough to tell me what purchases were available for that amount. I settled on two of the discounted chocolate turkeys.

From the convenience store I walked back across the street and handed her one chocolate turkey.

"I've got no money to give but I do have this? It's from Godiva."

"Hey, that's good. I used to go to Godiva before I was in this situation."

And before I could get away she told me part of her story. She told me she had done two tours in Iraq and when she returned her job wasn't waiting for her. She said she would have gone back to Iraq but that she knew she would be labeled expendable because she doesn't have kids, a spouse or any other family.

She must have noticed my step backwards because she thanked me and mentioned again that she does like chocolate.

"Yeah, before this situation, I used to come Downtown a lot. I would go to Borders and Starbucks and whenever I could get the chance I would pick up something in Godiva's. I'm addicted to books and coffee, unlike some of the others."

I was looking around mainly so I wouldn't have to look her in the eye. I would look to the left in such a way as to cause my body to shift a bit and I would move my left foot back a bit. I would do the same as I looked to the right pretending to watch out for any pedestrian wishing to use the sidewalk. I had an hour and a half to kill before I could deliver my chocolates but I really didn't want to spend any more time on this particular street corner.

"I should be all right though, after this situation, because I have a lawsuit against my employer. I should end up getting more money than if I had worked but things take time."

"Well good luck," I said as I finished my escape.

I walked six blocks to South Station and ordered a number eight from the McDonald's value menu and then sat and watched the hodge podge of people catching trains or trying to get on the bus. When I got bored with that I pulled out a small notebook and started to hand write a blog post.

I had a hundred words or so before my conscience kicked in.

"You could have done more."

"You didn't even give her both turkeys, or that free box you got. You're out nothing."

"And don't you write for a blog whose very existence came to be for people like her, soldiers who have been let down? Or at least didn't you?"

Then I changed the post I was working on to this one. I wasted time until quarter of ten and then started walking to the club. At the front desk, I asked where my former bartender was working and I was told she was on the third floor. I cut through the floor of pool tables at the top of the winding staircase and read the note on the back door, there was a private party for some high school reunion of some suburban town. I didn't bother to work out the age difference between myself and the party goers that I would soon see, I knew I would have at least ten years on them.

I stood mostly out of place at the end of the bar, my former bartender had her back to me. As she turned around, she greeted me with a great smile and introduced me as her favorite customer from her former place of employment. I placed the bag on the bar and wished her a happy birthday.

Our conversation was brief, I was out of place at that particular club, at that particular reunion and in her particular life. I refuse the shot she offered; she promised me an email as I said goodbye.

On my way out, I thanked the girl at the front, who had told me where Danielle was working and as I stepped out into the mild, late Fall air, I heard "She's eight blocks, that way, if she's still there."

Eight blocks in real shoes; I had been walking a lot that day and I almost never wear real shoes, but the club I had just left doesn't let you in if you're not wearing real shoes. Sometimes, I make sacrifices.

"Eight more blocks in real shoes is not a lot, and you didn't spend a dime in there. Everything in your pocket is expendable."

I grinned at that nagging voice's choice of words. He's good. I hate him.

During the walk back, I wondered if I could post her story, maybe even get a picture. I worked on an opening line: "Hey, I sort of write for blog that came to be because of soldiers like you. If you wanted, I could post your story."

As I got closer I relocated a twenty to the left pocket of my four hundred and fifty dollar leather coat, a coat I received as a gift. I still worried about how to approach her. I've been careful all this time not to get too close, all my other help has been through a third person, I've avoided saddened eyes, broken bodies, damaged minds and injured souls. I've done quite well in not getting any on me.

I was half a block away when I could see someone still on the corner. I remember thinking that she hadn't seemed so tall while she was sitting, but it wasn't her, it was some other guy that I've never seen before.

I didn't get his story either.