WOEBEGONES

I saw a street person walk past my house yesterday, which is an unusual sight. It’s not as if we don’t have unusual sights along our street: a woman in pj’s and hiking boots walking a tiny dog down the middle of the road, two very large, very drunk old men who took turns running up every driveway to yell the name Bertie into each backyard before scampering off (that was before the police arrived), a fellow dressed in black (black shoes, black pants, black shirt, black bowler) who quacks (through some kind of portable amplifying system) every so many yards as he jogs along, a guy who roams the area at three a.m. calling for Skippy – but seldom do we see street people. I suppose the man spends his nights in the park (beautiful surroundings, but not a safe place to have to sleep). His hair was a matted mess, his clothes were in tatters and he was filthy (which was obvious clear from inside my house).
There are some that believe a derelict gets what he/she deserves. That they are simply shiftless and too lazy to work – which is undoubtedly true in some cases. But that kind of thinking makes it all too easy to sidestep compassion, a commodity that is sorely lacking.
I have a friend who swears that my way of thinking draws those down on their luck to me. She constantly refers to the time I was on the other side of the U.S., standing with a large group of people waiting for a taxi when a homeless man, riding an imaginary motorcycle, pulled up to me and screeched on his imaginary brakes. As a group, those around me took a giant step backwards.
“Hi,” the motorcyclist said to me.
“Hi,” I replied.
“My friend, Charlie, wants to meet you,” he stated.
Oh boy.
Before I could respond, the man pulled out a plant from a spare shirt he had tucked under his arm (an action, I’m sure, meant to keep him from driving in a reckless manner). The roots of the creeping Charlie, void of dirt, dangled freely yet the leaves looked fresh and healthy (leaving me to believe that it had been very recently ripped from its home to go on this little trip).
“Hi, Charlie,” I said softly, hoping the crowd wouldn’t notice that I was conversing with vegetation.
The man smiled at me revealing toothless gums before revving up his bike and taking off with a loud varoom, varoom.
Aside from the homeless down on their luck, there are those with mental problems living on the street. One in particular was a middle aged man who spent much of each day wandering along the same thoroughfare. His disheveled appearance and loud ranting made him a frightening figure. One day Hubby could no longer stand the man’s tortured out bursts and approached him as the man screamed at an unseen partner. Hubby handed the man some money and over the raving, shouted, “Go get some breakfast.” The words seemed to jolt the man back to reality, at least for a moment.
“Okay,” he replied meekly.
Too bad the problems of the homeless can’t be solved as easily as that.