I just gave away a pair of boxers and a shirt that I have had for a few years to a homeless man. His name was William, I know this because in the way of registering himself on me as a person he told me.

I was walking into my apartment building carrying my supplies for the project I am working on, laden slightly by the three sheets of double ply chip board from Utrecht 10 blocks away. There is instant recognition by anyone who has lived in a city long enough when someone is going to ask for money.

“My name is William.”

I know the only reason someone tells me their name is to verify legitimacy., to humanize himself so I would be more apt to give him the money that he needs for what ever substance he wants to abuse at the time. I am happy to oblige if that substance is food, but the remaining category of vices are not something I like to support as a life style. I smiled and said “no”. He moved on to technique number two, he helped me with the door, while continuing on his diatribe about his needs and life:

“I am homeless. I don’t have any money till the end of the month when my check from…”

“I don’t have any money to give you.”

during this exchange, he let the door shut between us. This door is wrought iron. The bars on it are spaced close enough to keep arms and fingers out. There was an impassable barrier between us. I was on the side of warmth and refrigerated leftovers and he was in the fog and wind. Or only tie was the communication that slipped through the bars. What I could see of him pieced together by my brain from between the vertical black lines, was moving constantly. He was like a snake charming his prey and like a child unsure of his body, feeling the cold but not sure exactly what that means.

“let me finish”

He was not done with his entreaty. Before he could respond to me on a real level he had to deliver the speech that was engrained as the perfunctory greeting in his social edicate. His foot was stamped and I let him tell me about his needs and wants. I then informed him that I had no money to give him and that unless he could use double ply chipboard to his advantage I had little on me of use to his current predicament.

At this point I was invested in this life. I was the pervayor of goods to ease the suffering of this soul. Not really, but in the visceral empathetic level it sure feels that way.

“I don’t have anything on me to help you.”

“But then you are going up…”

William pointed a finger up. Up, where the source of food, bed, luxury, and salvation hovers. His blackened finger pointed out of his shirt cuff followed by the hands so often the intermediary between him and the world. The cups for change and the hooks for dragging blankets and now the timid arrow to allude to my power to help.

“do you need food?”

“what kind of food?”

This is a funny answer I get at times from homeless people. Were I destitute, I would assume that any food would suffice. But I suppose there may be pescatarian homeless men asking for money to get some macrobiotic meals. I told him of what little I have in the house that would be ready for immediate consumption. He picked a few of the items, and asked if I had a shirt.

“I really need a shirt.

And some underwear.

Long sleeve.”

I asked if there were any soup kitchens in the area, that could offer him food more to his liking. He told me there were, but you have to wait in line.

“Have to wait in line

Line

Line

Line

Line…”

He was scratching his beard this time while repeating this word in to the wind, the word floated away with the flakes of his face from where he scratched. He was in rough shape. Oil of Olay wouldnt know where to begin. He told me that waiting in line was too much like the yard at the pen. He drew with his fingers in the air circles calling to mind scenes from Clockwork Orange where the inmates are required to walk in the concrete yard for their exercise.

 

“I am not ever going back there.”

 

“OK. Wait here William, I’ll be back with what I can find.”

in my house, which is the same size as the foyer in which I stood behind the metal door protecting me from the night and the people who may want to take from me, I foraged for what I could give to fit the description of what he wanted, and hopefully needed.

Its funny how things tend to have a deep nostalgic history when you are about to give them away to a thankless homeless man. “…Oh I cant give him that shirt…its the one I wore when…and those underwear were a gift…and those just make me look sexy…”

I eventually found a few items fitting the desires of William, Placed them in a brown paper shopping bag touting on the side to reuse or recycle it; I was afforded an opportunity for the former, and took them down the elevator from the elevation where good stuff comes from. William was waiting on the sidewalk acosting passersby asking the same set of questions following his diatribe that has me now holding out a bag of my belongings topped with a bag of Cheesits, an apple and the last banana I had.

William offered me in the way of thanks a long look in the bag and what sounded like static from a radio far off from any channel complete with hand gestures of what would pass in charades as waves. As I backed towards my door, the safety and the continuation of the project that had taken me from my room in the first place, he said thanks. It was under his breath and I am not sure that it was entirely conscious, but there it was, the vestiges of the communication that had brought about our exchange in the first place the end of the cycle. The opposing book end to “Please”.

 

 

After I had given him my bag of offerings, I came back up. Sitting on the one chair I contemplated what this all had meant. What had I gotten from the exchange. Was this my duty for Karma? Was this my monthly tithe for God to hear my prayers? Was I proliferating the socialist ideals? Pay it forward? The golden rule?

…

…

…

We have anything because someone was kind to us, be it our parents for raising us to be functional, be it teachers for teaching us properly be it bosses for saying yes to hiring us, be it the CEO of Target for offering prices that are affordable. Were we to live in a vacuum we would have nothing. Nothing to own, nothing to play with or wear or watch or make or eat or jump or kiss or love or wrestle or give or give or give. The days since have been cold. I have not wanted for that shirt, and I hope that William has gotten some use out of it, that it has helped him with his day. I would love to be a small kindness that offered to him some of the wealth of kindness I have received in my life. I dont expect a thank you note or even recognition by him of what I gave, since it is is routine to ask for aid, head just below water for the time between kindnesses.

Giving to William makes me say thank you to the people who have been and are and will be kind to me.

Cheers, guys.

[Guess its a little like pay it forward...crap. I am a product of my surroundings. I'm going to drink a Frapichino to drown my sorrows. ]

 

This entry was posted on Sunday, July 26th, 2009 at 9:05 pm and is filed under musings. You can follow responses to this entry through the Comments RSS Feed. You can leave a response or trackback from your site.