On my morning walk down Fulford Road,
I pass a young man, laying down, crying, sweating, hollowed out on a bench.
A couple leans in, kind eyes and kind hands, trying to reach him.
But he’s somewhere else entirely.
I keep walking.
Not because I’m heartless.
Because coffee.
And Jemma’s smile.
Central Church is exactly one mile away (a 23-minute walk if you’re curious, which you’re not, but I’m tracking it anyway like I’m on some sort of holy pilgrimage to caffeine.)
Act I: The Royal Mug Ceremony
Inside, three elderly women are running breakfast today. (And a few younger volunteers, too, but they’re irrelevant to the plot.)
The first one offers me a choice of mugs on the counter, like I’m royalty.
I ask for her favorite.
Without hesitation, she digs under the counter and pulls out a purple mug like it’s the freakin’ Holy Grail.
I thank her as though she just knighted me.
Then the eldest, 75+, pure cartilage and grit, casually drops her cane, squares her hips, and from a perfect three-step drop, fires a bag of chips across the room.
A perfect spiral.
Right into Jemma’s chest.
My jaw hits the floor.
Is this Tom Brady’s grandmother?
Should we be scouting the over-70 league for next year’s draft?
They’re all radiating with life.
Act II: Breakfast Banter and Jemma the Untouchable
I sit down next to Jemma.
“Good morning, Jemma.”
She nods.
“Morning.”
“Scale of 1 to 10 — how are you?”
She sips her coffee, looks at me like I’ve asked for her social security number, and says:
“A 9.”
I smirk.
“Why not a lower number?”
(This forces the other person to tell you about only positive things, no matter the number.)
She raises an eyebrow.
“I already told you 9. That’s all you’re getting.”
Then, she turns her chair.
Gives me the cold shoulder.
Sass I've never received before.
She finishes her breakfast.
She gets up,
looks at me,
I smile.
She says nothing.
Leaves.
I love the game of cat and mouse.
Neither of us says a word.
A test of wills.
Wonder who’ll win.
Act III: Enter Robert, Stage Left
Then he walks in.
Same puddle of sweat and panic.
Same empty eyes.
He’s in pieces, and the room senses it.
Volunteers gather around him like seagulls on a dropped French fry:
Gentle, kind, and entirely ineffective.
Libby sits him next to me.
Now it’s time for surgery.
No Band-Aids on bullet holes.
Dragon Therapy Begins
Preface: Robert and I were laughing throughout this conversation, but this the closest thing I can find to how he was coping to his life at the moment.
I lean in.
“What’s your favorite color?”
He blinks.
“…Orange.”
I nod. Serious. Clinical.
“Second favorite?”
“Purple.”
We let it simmer.
“Third?”
Sweat beads. Wheels turn.
“I've never really thought about it. Green?”
“Hmm,” I say like I’m decoding a CIA file.
“You know, Robert… most people would say those colors clash.”
He chuckles.
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”
We’re cooking now.
This isn’t just chit-chat.
This is thrilling conversation.
Robert is leaning in.
I’m leaning in.
It’s like the World Chess Championship, except instead of pawns and bishops we’re moving orange and purple and green across the board.
“Robert, if you had a pet dragon, what color would it be?”
“Black. Or red.”
I raise an eyebrow and smirk.
“Not orange? I thought that was your favorite.”
Then he lied to me with a smile on his face.
“That’d look stupid on a dragon.”
Hmm. Wonder who told Robert that his favorite color was stupid.
(I would like a word with them. Preferably while holding a broadsword.)
“How big is the dragon?”
“Depends on the castle, Is it evil or medieval?" he says.
“…Is it not your castle?”
We laugh like idiots.
“Could you slay the dragon? Win in a fight? Put it in chains?”
Robert doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t laugh.
Doesn’t even blink.
He looks at me with the stillness of stone.
and in that moment,
it’s as if the question itself is absurd.
He's in utter disbelief I even asked.
Like I’d asked if he could swallow the sun.
Like I’d suggested he rewrite the laws of nature.
His voice lands heavy, unshakable —
the most serious he’s ever been in his life:
“No way. Could you?”
As if it were an impossible feat.
“Of course.
It’s my dragon.
It’s my pet.
I created it.”
I lean in.
“Is yours not your pet?
Does your dragon control you?”
A pause.
The air feels thick.
A beat of silence.
The kind of silence where something shifts.
“…I feel weird,”
Robert says.
“Say more.”
“I’ve just had this emotional experience, and now I’m talking to a stranger about dragons.”
“Yeah, but never mind that, are you gonna slay the dragon?”
“…I don’t think we’re talking about dragons anymore.”
Act IV: The Double Huffle Puff Maneuver
I look at Robert cock-eyed,
smirking like I’m about to reveal the secret to life.
“What do you need right now?”
“I need to calm down.”
“Who can do that for you?”
“…Me.”
“Great! What helps you calm down? Reading? Writing? Drawing? Music?”
“I make music. But right now I need to breathe”
“Even better. Let’s do it together.”
I take the deepest breath humanly possible.
Ridiculous. Wild-eyed. Like I’m summoning storm gods.
He follows, half-smiling.
We laugh.
"Surely a professional breather like yourself is familiar with the Double Huffle Puff Maneuver, right?”
He squints, processing.
“…What?”
I shake my head slowly, like a disappointed coach watching a rookie fumble the basics.
“Robert, Robert... *sigh*... Everyone... and I mean everyone.... knows about the Double Huffle Puff Maneuver.”
I turn back to a smile.
“Where have you been?!”
“It’s the elite breathing move. Inhale once, then again, before exhaling. Maximum oxygen.”
I show him the maneuver in a silly, awkward manner, exaggerated and obnoxious.
He cracks a smile, laughs, half impressed.
Then, making a silly face, he perfectly executes the maneuver.
We laugh some more.
“Are you like a SoundCloud rapper?” I ask.
“No. I’m working on music refinement.”
(No idea what that means, but I kept firing)
“You sing?”
“Yes.”
“Like... Frank Sinatra?”
He grins.
“…Actually, yeah.”
He names three more classic crooners.
Now we’re howling like crazy.
I just hip-fired Sinatra and hit a stranger square in the soul.
I’m shaking my head in disbelief.
Act V: Building a Castle
When I ask what else he needs.
“A shower? More food?”
A Shower
Cereal
Orange Juice
Boom. He gets all three.
Still sweating, still shaking, but steadier now.
“I feel like I’m being rushed.”
I nod.
“Ain’t that some shit, Robert.
Who’s rushing you?”
He pauses.
“…No one.”
“I took a bus here. Every place I’ve ever been has never felt like home.”
Welcome to York, my dear friend.
I give him my number.
And tell him about the only homeless shelter in the city
that only accepts broke people.
The kind of broke people who know what color their dragon is,
even if it took three questions to remember.
Who out there is still paying for therapy, antidepressant's or choking it down?
Cheers to you,