So I was walking back from Sparks Street in downtown Ottawa this morning, having gone over to the Royal Bank of Canada branch in town to pay and mail off my off-campus work permit. The sounds of Yellowcard vibrated through my ears; it wasn’t a song I particularly liked, but I didn’t want to spare a hand to change tunes on my iPod as I needed them to hold on to something as I negotiated the slippery sidewalks.

The path I took back wound under a small underpass by Rideau Street; this underpass was notorious for being the favourite haunt of homeless people and beggars alike, and today was no different. Amidst the scattered puddles of murky water and softened snow (we saw above zero temperatures in Ottawa today) stood a middle-sized homeless man, holding a guitar with his back against the wall. Although relatively clean, the signs of hard living showed in his gear – he had paper thin gloves, a tattered and dirty snow cap, and his jacket and scarf looked like they could render a washing machine to tears and embarrassment.

His empty guitar case lay a few feet in front of him; said musical instrument was in the man’s hands as he hummed and strummed, almost aimlessly, trying to earn his keep. His playing wasn’t spectacular, unlike some of the hobos I’ve seen who could actually put Britney Spears out of business (on the condition that they had a shave and grew boobs, of course); in fact, one would be hard pressed to find even the fragment of a note in this particular street performance.

I find it hard to resist trying to help out, especially if I have some loose change. So I dug my hand in my pocket as I approached the yodeling hobo; my groping fingers felt the familiar size of the Canadian quarter and prepared it for charity.

Even then, I admit I actually hesitated – I am flat broke as it is, and as a student in another country, you never know if the spare quarter you have in your hands right now could be your last for the week. And again I admit, I was thinking about myself at the moment…I had no bread left in my larder, and the only thing in my biscuit jar was nothing.

Oh what the hell.

As I passed the homeless radio’s guitar case, I bent down and chucked in a quarter – I even managed to count the amount of money he had in his begging case – there was a loonie and a twonie, amongst two more quarters (including my own); a grand total of CAD 3.50, that’s how little he had in his coffers. I then rose from my stoop and continued on my way.

And as I raised my head I caught the sight of a sincere smile from the face belonging to the body holding the guitar. It was a pure smile, one that conveyed appreciation and sincere gratitude.

Thank you man, I appreciate it! Have a good day!

I smiled back; I don’t think I need words – on any given day, even a smile is thanks enough.

But this man had more in the way of gratitude. I had barely taken five steps before I started flailing and sprawling, my sneakers struggling to find a grip on the warm, melting ice. Behind me a voice called out:

Oh yeah, walk on the peanuts okay? Be careful and watch your step!

What peanuts?

And then I saw them: strewn and scattered on the ice were small brown peanut fragments, ground into the snow. The little things provided for frictional relief and traction as one ascended the slippery slope out of the underpass…someone had deliberately bought a packet of grocery peanuts, smashed them up, and placed them on the ground for others to walk safely…

The memory of a certain sincere smile crept into my head, along with the sounds of nonsensical strumming just behind me.

I should have given him a dollar.

“Lead on to save me-
Lead us all there,
Find me some answers-
It’s time that you cared…”

- Words, Hands, Hearts by Yellowcard.