Someone once told me you can have anything in the world you want—if you’re willing to ask a thousand people for it.

I think about that a lot. Has anyone ever actually done it?

There’s a woman who stands outside Margeaux’s restaurant in East Liberty, right at the corner of North Highland and Center. She’s asked me for a dollar probably eight times. I often give money when someone asks me, but I never give her a dollar.

Maybe because she scared me once—knocked on my window while I was on the phone with my mom at that red light. I jumped out of my skin.
“Do you have a dollar?” she asked.
Scared the shit out of me.
It reminded me of that line from Better Off Dead—“I want my two dollars!” (If you know, you know.)

But maybe it’s not about the scare.
Maybe it’s that when someone is specific, I listen differently.

Like Charlie.

There’s a Walgreens tucked under a set of concrete stairs in East Liberty. The kind of place that always smells faintly of wet cardboard and coffee grounds. A trash can sits right out front, and those stairs next to it have become a kind of neighborhood bench—people waiting, talking, sharing a smoke.

That’s where I met Charlie.

He was sitting on the second step, a worn black backpack at his feet, wearing a Steelers sweatshirt that had seen better seasons. His hair was silver-gray, his skin dark and sun-worn, and his smile—good Lord, his smile—was worth a million dollars.

When I walked by, he looked me straight in the eyes.
And I looked back.

That’s something I try to do. Really see people. It matters.

He smiled wider and said, “It’s my birthday.”

How did he know I’m a total sucker for birthdays?

For a second, I thought about running into Walgreens to grab a cupcake and a balloon—because everyone deserves cake with a candle on their birthday. But instead, I decided to give him what he’d actually asked for: money.

I reached into my fanny pack (my new appendage since turning fifty) and found a folded $100 bill. I handed it to him.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Charlie.”
“Happy birthday, Charlie,” I said, smiling.

He thanked me and looked down at the bill—no reaction. Then looked again. And again. His eyes got huge. Tears welled up.

He stood, holding the bill back out toward me. “Is this for me?”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s for you.”

That’s when something shifted.

He sat back down, overwhelmed. “Oh my goodness. I need to sit down. I need to get my head straight.”

Then, quietly, “This is the best birthday gift I’ve ever had.”

I sat down next to him. Without thinking, I reached for his hand. He took it.

We prayed together.

His hand was warm, weathered, gentle. Another person stopped nearby, watching. They stepped closer, maybe wanting to give Charlie money, maybe just wanting to join the prayer. They stood with us. Then another person came. Suddenly, three strangers were gathered around Charlie on the steps of Walgreens.

What created that circle?
Charlie did.

He asked for what he wanted. I noticed.

I followed the nudge—that small internal whisper that says this one, yes. I’ve learned to trust those. When I get a nudge, I stop. I give. I speak. When I don’t, I don’t.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t yet stopped for the one-dollar lady. Maybe my spirit just hasn’t said yes yet.

But Charlie—Charlie was a yes.

He was the kind of yes that rearranges something inside you.

I still say happy birthday to him when he crosses my mind. I can’t remember what I walked into Walgreens for that day, but I remember his name.

Are you willing to ask for what you want?

And if you are—are you willing to look at someone while you do it?

A special thank you to a dear friend who made a request.

thank you for asking for the Monday Substacks to return. You got it friend!

✨ Magic in the Mess is back every Monday.
Today’s Joy Practice: Ask for what you want. Trust the nudge.