“Spare change?”
I observed him sitting on the sidewalk a little further ahead, leaning against the front of a business, repeating the question as people walked by. Most just ignored him. As I passed, I nodded, even though he didn’t say anything.
He nodded back. We were both regulars. Doing our separate things downtown.
I didn’t always walk the same blocks and he didn’t always sit in the same spot. I imagine the merchants kept him moving along. But we encountered each other routinely.
We both had our jobs. His was unorthodox. And “job” probably isn’t what most would describe his occupation. But I thought it took guts to withstand all the rejection. I mean the city provides shelter, showers, and food to the homeless. So, he didn’t have to do what he was doing. I guess the money he was after — well, I guess it was to buy whatever he wanted. At least he didn’t look like one of the mental patients, or drug addicts. His clothes were clean and his gray hair was recently cut.
Even though we both periodically nodded to each other over the years, we never spoke. In fact, he was the only person I commonly encountered without exchanging a word.
I learned his name was Tom from a local newspaper article. The picture of him sitting on the sidewalk would be familiar to any local pedestrian. His story wasn’t particularly unique. He was once part of the “normal” world. Back then he was married and worked in a local factory before it closed. The article outlined some bad breaks but didn’t invoke a sense of pity nor did he make himself out as some kind of victim. As he put it, he fell and never got up.
So, one day I was in less of a hurry. I stopped, squatted down, amiably met his eyes, and asked, “How’s things?”
He was perfectly calm. “They are.” He had all the time in the world. “They just are.”
Before I stood up and was on my way, I nodded and replied, “I get that.”
by George Alger
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