About 10 years ago, there was this tiny old man who came through the liquor store drive-thru every other day. He never looked at me—just handed me cash and said he wanted a six-pack of Natty.
Now, I worked there all day, and my regulars were like family. I wanted everyone to be my friend, but this guy? He wouldn’t even acknowledge me. It drove me nuts.
After a year, I started asking if he wanted to hear the “daily joke” from another customer. He never said yes or no, but I’d tell it anyway—badly—just hoping to get a smile. He’d shake his head and tell me to give him his beer so he could leave. I told him one day, he probably wouldn’t hate me.
We went on like this for two more years. Then one day, he tossed something at me after I slid the “hostage beer” into his lap—a shirt that read BEER ANGEL. My life was complete.
From then on, he started warming up—slowly. Sometimes he’d hand me a stack of jokes he printed out. Other times he’d bring little gifts: a cow lifting weights figurine, a candle he found outside by the trash, even a Playboy (he swore it was for the girl’s earrings). His laugh that day could’ve cured anything.
Six years into this drive-thru friendship, he asked me and my coworker “Purple” to run errands for him. He was on oxygen and couldn’t get around, so he handed us his debit card, a grocery list, and told us to spend $20 on ourselves.
Later, he asked me to cut his hair. Sometimes he came to the shop, but when he felt too weak, I’d visit his house instead. He always had liquor chocolates waiting for me and my little girl, Violet (she was three then). He’d do crosswords while I cut his hair, and we’d talk about everything from family to random nonsense.
One day I called myself “Kate” while telling a story, and he looked at me shocked—“Is your name Kate? I thought it was butthole!” That was Pete—awful, in the best way.
A few haircuts later, he wrote me a check and signed it “Kate.” I cried. The last time I saw him, he called me “sweetheart” as I walked out. I told him I preferred “butthole.”
Weeks later, I drove to Dexter for his funeral. There were only a few family and friends. I stood awkwardly to the side, thinking no one would know who I was. But after the service, every single person came over and said, “You must be Kate. He talked about you all the time.”
It’s been a year since Pete’s been gone, but Violet and I still talk about him often. I miss him more than I can say.
Please—be kind to people. Obnoxiously, annoyingly, insanely kind.
— Katie Sawyer ❤️