shops or the movies for lack of anything better to do. But being punks doesn't mean much.
One evening, after a day of not doing much, we were sitting in McDonald's when a guy in our group whom I had just met that day walked in. Brian was the typical punk teenager, dressed in black with the dyed hair. Right before he stepped inside, he yelled something outside to a man walking down the street. I just hoped he wasn't trying to start trouble. He sat down and a minute later, a burly homeless man stuck his head in and looked at Brian.
"Did you say something to me?" the man demanded, and I thought I saw a mean glint in his eyes. I shrank back,
thinking that if Brian had tried to pick a fight, this was
the wrong guy to do it with. I had seen too many people
and places kick teenagers like us out for pulling stuff.
While the rest of us were looking for a place to back
into, Brian got up and walked up to him. "Yeah...would you
like something to eat?"
The relief was almost audible, and the man smiled and
walked in. After a large meal of hamburgers, fries and dessert, the man left, and even the staff waved good-bye to him.
When we asked Brian about it, he explained how he had money that he didn't need and the man had none, so it was only right.
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