It’s tricky. Just this morning I was walking the dog when I passed the guy usually camped out at a corner near my building. Andrew. The exchange went something like this:
Andrew: Morning. How are you?
Me: Pretty good and you?
And as soon as the words left my lips, I cringed. I’m asking a homeless person how he’s doing. He’s sitting on a piece of cardboard upon a filthy sidewalk with a Wendy’s extra large soda cup. He’s not clean, his hair is passable, he has markings all over his body. The markings are small and large. The small ones are needle marks and the larger ones are infected needle marks. There’s even more markings, though. He cuts his skin as he is convinced that there are worms crawling underneath his skin. He has a suitcase and his outfits change from day to day. Usually sporting something stylish.
He’s genuinely happy as opposed to some of the other angered and caustic homeless. He is non-threatening and always waves to me when I’m walking my dog. He knows her name. He has long yet not greasy or matted hair parted in the middle. He had a birthday recently. I know this because he was gleeful for most of last week and told anyone passing by that he was now forty two. He asks for money, usually a specific amount. Maybe he has a specific item earmarked for each contribution, or maybe he sets mini-goals for his fund raising. Once the sun sets, he packs up and disappears until the morning.
His pattern is so consistent that the day he wasn’t in his spot worried me.
Where was he? Was he in trouble?
I give him money on occasion but I don’t usually carry cash on me while walking the dog. When I do give him money I always give him bills, not coins. I feel that coins would be an insult. He has made a choice and doesn’t appear to regret it. He choses to sit at this corner every day with the world literally passing by him. I feel bad when I dismiss my usual walk in order to avoid him. I know he’s aware I’m avoiding him. But some days I can’t bring myself to participate in the daily (often twice daily) routine. I feel guilty.
And then I feel even more guilty trying to make like he’s not there.
He doesn’t talk to himself and shows no signs of schizophrenia like many of the other homeless suffer from. He is completely present in his world and I am completely present in his life. I once gave him a ceramic dish with money in it to replace his Wendy’s cup and dress up his operation, because it is an operation and he’s highly consistent in presenting it. The next day, the dish was gone. I asked him where it went.
Andrew: Somebody kicked it into the street and broke it. All the coins spilled all over the place.
He’s educated. I can tell by his perfectly phrased observations. He speaks clearly and cohesively.
Andrew: Hopefully this rainstorm will stop soon. At least that’s what I heard.
One night I had a craving for a cigarette which was weird since I quit smoking a long time ago. I asked the doorman if he had one which he did. He suggested I smoke it in the ally behind the building and even showed me how to prop the door so I could get back in once I finished. I may have taken three puffs and my craving was more than satisfied. It gave me a head rush and the taste was horrible. It made me wonder what enjoyment I got out of smoking cigarettes, a habit I started back in my college days.
Then the strangest thing happened. As I stubbed out the butt with my sneaker, I noticed Andrew just ten feet away shooting up. I didn’t want to embarrass him by saying hello. When he was finished shooting up, he walked right by me with no acknowledgment. He was high and it looked like he’d entered another universe very different from his day job. He was high and he was happy as he carried his life out of the ally and moved onto his nighttime destination. I clearly didn’t exist in Andrew’s evening universe. That universe was exclusive. He set the rules. Nobody else.
The next morning I walked the dog and Andrew was back at his post, where he wasn’t in control. He had to recognize me and had to endure some of the awful looks from other people. I said “morning” to him and he said hello to Stella (my dog) with sweet and genuine intentions in this world where he knew his place and occupied his space within it.
His day job being homeless / his nightlife being high.
I’ve stopped trying to figure out how a person gets to this point. I’ve stopped trying to imagine what a homeless person’s last act will be. Will they overdose? Will they starve to death? Will somebody harm them to confiscate their belongings or money?
It’s not my business. What I am certain of is that someday Andrew will pass and it’s likely he’ll pass in the nighttime while in his world. That’s the best ending I can only hope he experiences. That he passes in his world and not the one that passes by him most of the day.