Ten years ago, in the drive-thru of a little liquor store, I met a man who would change me forever — though you never would’ve guessed it at the time.

Pete was tiny, quiet, and old. He drove up every other day in his car, rolled down the window just enough to hand me money, and muttered the same words without even looking at me: “Six pack can of Natty.” That was it. No small talk. No smile. No hint of recognition. Just money, beer, and gone.

Now, I worked long hours, and my regulars were like family. I thrived on banter, jokes, making people laugh. But Pete? Pete wouldn’t even meet my eyes. And it drove me crazy.

So, I made it my mission.

Every time he came through, I’d ask if he wanted to hear the “joke of the day” from one of my other customers. He never said yes. Never said no. Just sat there while I butchered whatever punchline I had. And every time, I told him the same thing: “All I want is to catch you smiling one day.”

He mostly just shook his head and asked if I’d please stop holding his beer hostage.

And still — I kept at it.

For two years.

Then, one day, after I slid his beer into his lap with my usual dramatic flair, he threw something at me. A shirt. White letters across the front read: “BEER ANGEL.”

That was the moment I knew I had cracked him.

After that, things began to change. Slowly. He’d still barely talk, but I’d see the corner of his mouth twitch when I wore the shirt. Then came the jokes. Not mine — his. Printed stacks of them from his email. Sometimes he’d bring me little “gifts” — a cow figurine lifting weights, a random candle he found by the trash, even a Playboy once (because, as he explained between fits of laughter, “I liked the girl’s earrings”).

Four years in, I had finally made him my friend.

By year six, Pete started trusting me with more. He was on oxygen and struggling. One day, he handed me his debit card and a grocery list, told me to get what he needed — and to spend $20 on myself too. Another time, he asked if I could cut his hair. He joked about me dragging him inside on a blanket, but when he couldn’t make it to the chair, I started swinging by his house after work instead.

I’d bring my little daughter Violet along sometimes. He’d greet her with liquor chocolates (yes, really), and then cackle until tears streamed down his face. I cut his hair while he worked crosswords. We talked about everything — family, life, the weirdest nonsense you could imagine.

One day, I slipped and called myself by my real name: Kate. He stopped mid-crossword, looked up, and said in mock surprise, “Your name is Kate? I thought it was butthole.”

That was Pete. Sharp. Wicked. Wonderful.

A few haircuts later, he handed me a check. When I got to my car, I noticed what he had written in the corner. “Kate.” Just Kate. Not butthole. Not Beer Angel. My name. I sat there and cried.

The last time I saw him, as I walked out his door, he called after me: “Sweetheart.” I turned back, teased him that I preferred “butthole,” and saw him as he really was — tiny, frail, but smiling.

A couple of weeks later, Pete was gone.

At his graveside funeral, I stood off to the side, afraid his family would wonder who the heck I was. But one by one, they came over to me.

“You must be Kate. He talked about you all the time.”

I broke down sobbing.

It’s been years since Pete passed, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. Violet and I still talk about him often. He was stubborn, sarcastic, and sometimes awful in the best way — but he let me in. And in the end, he taught me the most important thing I know:

Be kind. Obnoxiously, annoyingly, insanely kind.

Because you never know when a six-pack of Natty and a cracked smile might turn into the kind of friendship you’ll carry with you for the rest of your life.