Ode to the Cookie Man

Whenever I tell people depressing tales of work which end with me running down a sketchy back alley after a pregnant woman (“I’ll hold you needles for you if you would just please go with the paramedics for my sake because you’re bleeding.”)…I feel the need to tell them of something Happy and Inspiring, too, lest they jump off the Granville Street Bridge.

I tell them about the Cookie Man.

The Cookie Man and his cookie wife are an older, retired couple. They have an oven, and they have time. Every week the Cookie Man shows up on the porch of our drop-in. He’s holding at least eight bags full of cookies, heavy with butter and steaming with warm cookie smells. We thank him and he leaves, to drop off more cookies at the other drop-ins, and we don’t know his real name because he Wishes to Remain Anonymous.

The cookies are rich and calorie laden, and on top of each cookie is a message written in colour ink: You are Loved, You are a Special Gift. We hand them out with vague descriptors: “chocolate something, double chocolate, I see coconut in this one,” and use them to bribe women out of their chairs at the end of the night when we need to close. In black market currency two cookies equals a cigarette, and a cookie is generally more precious than all but the best of meals.

Our women are often starving. They are vulnerable and fighting infections. They are living outdoors and facing addictions which strip away all of their dignities, family, and friends. They are amazing and worthwhile human beings, and most people don’t care.

But I think You’re Special. And I know You are Loved, because…I care. I don’t know how to tell you without sounding creepy or clichéd, but I know that you’re special.

Somewhere in Vancouver, the Cookie Man bakes to show he thinks so, too.