It was a monumental Monday morning. The time was 8:00 AM. The place was Beth Hayim, the only Orthodox synagogue in Sunshine, Florida. It was there that Michael Fein and Heshy Pupchik collided into each other like matter and anti-matter.

Heshy Pupchik was the poorest man in Sunshine, and no one had ever seen him work, either. Winter, summer, spring, and fall, Heshy looked the same. He wore old tennis shoes without socks, dark brown pants, and a yellowing short-sleeve white shirt. He weighed nearly three hundred pounds, and he carried it well when he decided to carry it.

At 59, his gray eyebrows were so bushy a bluejay could nest in them, and have room for a large brood. His eyebrows contrasted starkly to his almost completely bald head, which he topped off with an worn black skullcap. It was a mystery how Heshy kept the skullcap from slipping off, but he did.

Heshy's gray beard was long and scraggly, with his moustache covering most of his lips. His ears were extra large, teaming up with acute sense of hearing.

His eyes were the widest, saddest pair anyone had ever seen. They changed color with the quality of light, going from blue to brown to gray-black. No matter what color they appeared, people sensed great need lurked behind them. When Heshy extended his right hand, looked up to the heavens, and said, "Baruch Hashem," Blessed is God, the good folks of Sunshine automatically put money in his outstretched palm. Even Rabbi Levy succumbed to Heshy, and the Rabbi could not spare it on his meager salary.

Everyone gave to Heshy, except Michael Fein, the attorney, the President of Beth Hayim, and the richest Jew in town.

No one in Sunshine had ever seen Michael Fein slow down and smile. He was usually speeding around in his new Lexus, or looking at his Rolex, waiting impatiently for those who interrupted him to spit out what they wanted.

On this Monday morning, Michael was in foul spirits. He woke with a pounding headache, only to discover an empty bottle of aspirin in the medicine cabinet. When he combed his hair, large clumps fell into in the bathroom sink and he could see his scalp to the back of his head. He stared into the mirror, and a tired, old man of forty-five stared back.

Michael's Monday headache was from lack of sleep over the weekend. He spent those precious two days moping around his heavily mortgaged home, dwelling on the millions he lost in the stock market the preceding Thursday. Accounting fraud was discovered in a blue chip telephone company Michael was heavily invested in. Michael's 100,000 shares of stock went from $50 dollars a share, down to 6 cents. His retirement fund went from five million dollars to six thousand, less than a month's mortgage payment on his house. The nest egg he nurtured and tended to for twenty years was shattered in a single day.

Michael went to shul to pray for help from God, only to be confronted by Heshy with his hand out when he reached the front door.

"Baruch Hashem," Heshy greeted him cheerily, standing at his favorite spot.

"Get a job!" Michael sneered.

"I would ... but I am unable to work," Heshy answered, looking to his empty palm.

"You mean unwilling." Michael felt an acid anger boil to the surface. He needed someone to get angry at, to blame for his bad luck, and Heshy was the perfect, safe target.

"I am unwilling because I am unable," Heshy stammered.

"You are unable because you are fat and lazy!"

Heshy winced, and then grew silent. He lowered his head and looked down at the ground. When he looked back up, huge tears had formed around the bottoms of his eyes.

Though it was a foul Monday morning, perhaps the foulest of Michael's life, when he looked into Heshy's eyes, those tears stopped him like a clock with a broken spring. Michael had never really looked at Heshy. He saw him at the entrance, but didn't take the time to look. Heshy's eyes, so large and suffering, melted his tough lawyer's heart. Michael realized that as much pain as he was feeling, there was another human being who also carried a burden.

Michael pulled his wallet from his pants pocket, and searched through it for a dollar, or perhaps a five. He frowned when he discovered he had only two hundred dollar bills.

"I don't have anything small," Michael apologized, closing his wallet.

"Baruch Hashem," Heshy answered back. He raised his sad eyes and smiled at Michael, and those sad eyes, combined with his innocent smile, worked the miracle that was about to ensue.

"Oh, what the hell," Michael shrugged. He opened his wallet, withdrew one of the bills, and placed it in Heshy's hand. When Heshy saw the one followed by two zeros on the bill, he grabbed Michael's hand and held onto it.

"Thank you! Baruch Hashem! Thank you!"

"It's okay," Michael said, trying to disentangle the large, hairy hand that engulfed his.

"Wait ... I want to give you a brucha, Mr. Fein."

"You? Give me a blessing?" Michael asked, tugging at his trapped hand. Heshy had a grip like a circus strongman.

"Yes, a special brucha!"

Michael stopped struggling and stood there, listening impatiently, as Heshy looked up to the heavens and whispered in Hebrew. When he was almost done, he looked at Michael.

"Are you healthy, Mr. Fein? Would you also like a special brucha for health?"

"No. I am okay." His headache was now gone.

"Perhaps a family member is sick?"

"No. They are all healthy as horses."

"How about money? How are things in the prosperity department?"

Michael was about to say he was okay there, too, except for the first time in twenty years, he felt scared and out of control. His life savings was gone! Gone! He didn't have the strength to take on the punishing, aggravating duties of an attorney for another twenty years. He was worn out by other people's problems and their ungrateful attitudes.

"Heshy, I am broke."

It was Michael's turn to look down at the ground. He looked down a long time, Heshy still holding his hand. When he looked back up, there were tears in his eyes.

"A man works his whole life, Heshy, and it can all be taken away on one lousy Thursday."

"Yes ... Baruch Hashem."

And then Heshy did something he had never done before. He put the hundred dollar bill back into Michael Fein's hand.

"Here, Mr. Fein. Perhaps you should keep this."

Michael Fein was shocked. He stared at the bill placed back in his hand. One hundred dollars. It was barely enough to pay for a meal with his family at the better restaurants in Sunshine where his family had grown used to eating. How much pleasure would they get from this hundred dollar bill? He looked at Heshy Pupchik. A one hundred dollar windfall would bring this man joy for many days.

Michael put the bill back in Heshy's hand. "I would rather have your brucha, Heshy."

"Are you sure, Mr. Fein?" Heshy said, clutching the bill in his huge hand.

"Yes."

Heshy squeezed Michael's hand tighter, looked to the skies and prayed fervently. When he let go of Michael's hand, both men smiled at each other.

Michael Fein turned to the front door with Heshy following. At the last moment, Heshy jumped in front of him and held the door open. Michael was about to walk inside, but instead, stopped at the threshold. Heshy looked at him, puzzled.

"Aren't you going in?" Heshy asked.

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yes, aren't you coming inside, Heshy?"

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Fein, I didn't think you wanted to pray with me."

Michael nodded his head and walked inside. Heshy went back to his spot and waited for the next member of the congregation to approach from the parking lot. While Heshy was waiting, he heard the front door creak behind him. He turned around and looked.

Michael Fein was holding the door open for him.

THE END