We’re in one of the dozens of McDonald’s in central Sydney, getting Clyde the closest thing to an American cup of coffee this continent has to offer. (Breakfast here, in general, poses a challenge. Everyone seems to want to serve us canned beans on toast.)
I browse the lighted boards, trying to decide between a sausage McMuffin and the Big Breakfast. I’m distracted from this debate by an overpowering stench, an odor so thick and cloying it takes my breath away.
Glancing to my left, I spot the source: a homeless man, ragged and matted, stands just inches away. In his left hand he clutches a well-worn styrofoam coffee cup. In his right, he clutches a large bag full of bright yellow urine. The bag is connected to a thick catheter; the plastic tube, also full of urine, disappears somewhere beneath the man’s belt.
The odor and sight, combined, provoke a visceral response: I’m almost sick. I glance around at Clyde, who seems intent on his coffee, but unaware of the gentleman next to him in line.
Clyde notices my discomfort. “You want to go somewhere else?”
“No,” I say. “Well, let’s just get your coffee, and move on.”
Clyde shrugs, agreeing.
We reach the front of the line. The man is almost shoulder to shoulder with me. The woman behind the counter pointedly ignores him, turns to me, and says, “Your order?”
The man with the bag of urine starts weaving from side to side. He murmurs, urgently, under his breath … whining, really. He holds out his cup; he wants some coffee.
The woman behind the counter locks eyes with me. “Your order?” she says again.
“Large coffee. Big breakfast. Sausage McMuffin.”
She rings me up. Suddenly, I feel an overwhelming sense of shame. The man just wants a cup of coffee, for goodness sake … and here I am, right in front of him, ignoring him. No, worse — I’m ordering a huge breakfast just under his nose, which is worse, somehow.
I reach in my pocket. I find a two dollar coin. I resolve to buy the fellow a cup of coffee. When the counter lady returns with my tray, I pull out the money to place the order.
The man holds up his cup and whines.
“Wasn’t bought here, today!” Counter Woman says, loud and stern. “No refill! Now go!”
Before I can say or do anything else, the man scampers away like an animal.
“Your order’s up,” Counter Woman says, giving me a sunny smile.
Clyde and I sit in a corner booth. I fumble with my McMuffin. I could have made a small difference in someone’s life today … instead, like the rest of the world, I held my nose, hardened my heart, and stared off into the distance.
All he wanted was coffee.
I’m deeply ashamed.
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