No one knew his name
by Sara from the Cleveland Print Room
Every day he came to the poorest parts of town. It was the opposite direction from his home, though, and the extra stop added another hour at least to what should have been a trip of 15 minutes at most.
His coworkers always scoffed. What was a respectable man like him doing on that side of the train tracks? It was foolish, they told him, and he was only asking to get mugged.
Perhaps they were right. But perhaps they had spent too much time in the city that had long turned a blind eye to suffering. He had decided to look at them as equals and offer support.
The people came to expect him, unexpectedly, after a short while at the end of the work day with a smile on his face and a few dollars in hand.
No one knew his name.
In the cold and harsh winters he brought toys for the children as well as boots and coats. He had no children of his own; the neighborhood on the wrong side of the tracks had become his family.
He never gave his name.
They welcomed him regardless, though a few were skeptical of his reasons for helping. Businessmen all had agendas of their own, after all, and were rarely kind for the sake of kindness. The politicians, red and blue, had long stopped coming to that part of town after its residents had made it clear that such people weren’t welcome if they cared more about poll members than ending poverty.
No one asked for his name.
He told stories to the children of growing up in another country, not just on the wrong side of the tracks but not allowed in the city.
One day, one of the younger children asked about the numbers tattooed on his wrist, and it was one of the few times the smile ever left him. “They were from another time”, he told them, “and cruel men gave me this instead of a name”. But he pulled candies from his pocket just like every other day, and they forgot his momentary frown.
But no one ever knew his name.