The Neighborhood

One evening a couple of months ago I was walking to the neighborhood pub, and passing a doorway saw to my right a rather haunted-looking homeless guy. He had long gray hair, swept back, weathered skin, and clothes that had a patina of street grime on them.

Most notable about his appearance, though, were his eyes. They were a vivid blue, and against his ruddy skin they stood out like sapphires.

It was a cold evening and he was just standing there for shelter, and I felt sorry for him. I’d just gotten paid for something and was feeling flush. I thought how fortunate I am, and wondered what had happened to him. In harsh terms, alcohol probably happened to him, and alcohol brought along with it a host of  unsociable behaviors, and over time his life crumbled to the point it was now: alone in an empty doorway, gazing out like a ghost at the busy street.

Spinning back further in time, one would probably discover in this man’s abuse or neglect in childhood, as well as tragedies and losses of various sorts. All of it (whatever ‘it’ was) made booze seem like a desirable refuge. Mental illness might very well have played a role, or worked in concert with alcohol or drugs.  

It's an old story, and could be told about several others in this neighborhood. There’s a skinny black guy who holds out a baseball cap and runs at you, shaking it, then pointing to his ears to indicate that he’s deaf. There’s a woman—I think it’s a woman—who wears a woolen cap pulled over her ears and displays on a cart signs that exhort the reader to “Save for the future!” To everyone who passes by, she shouts out, “Thanks be to God! Serve the Lord!” Another homeless woman looks Asian, but she’s mostly bundled up in black from head to foot, and wearing dark glasses, so it’s hard to tell.  I see her from time to time on the covered bus bench, sitting behind her two shopping carts loaded with her possessions and neatly wrapped in plastic.

I don’t give money to them. They don’t ask, either, except for the deaf guy, and he’s obnoxious about it. But I made an exception for the guy with the laser-beam eyes because he looked, underneath the grime, sort of normal. Cleaned up, wearing some decent clothes, he could be Grandpa in a catalog photo. 

So I gave him $20 and said, “Good luck.” 

He looked at the money, said thanks, and tucked it into his pocket.

I wouldn’t exactly say I thought I’d done a good deed. If stereotypes are any guide, he’d probably just spend the money on wine, or maybe something better. What he did with it wasn’t my responsibility, though. At best, I thought, he felt a little recognized in his loneliness and misery. He might reflect on that for 30 seconds or so, then go and buy a hamburger and a bottle of booze. Or maybe just two bottles of booze. That was okay with me. 

On the same street where this happened is a pleasant little café, where I do much of my writing. I nurse a cup of coffee or tea for an hour or two while I work.

And lately, who have I been seeing here but Mr. Piercing Eyes himself. He’s got a weathered duffel bag and a sturdy leather jacket, along with a pretty nice laptop and an iPhone, too. He’s got the laptop open, and seems to be working on something. But he stays longer than I do—doesn’t have anywhere to go, I suppose—so instead of just buying coffee or tea, he gets lunch, which is pretty tasty, and comes in around $10.  

I guess he wasn’t quite so desperate as I imagined.