I think most people wrestle with their emotions when they walk by someone holding a cardboard sign—even though that sign usually includes the promise of God’s blessing. (Most of us don’t realize how often we are blessed each day.)
For most passersby, each person and location—even the individual’s posture and expression—evoke different emotions and reactions. Maybe you walk by shaking your head in judgment or looking straight ahead like they aren’t even there. Other times. you might smile weakly, look down at the sidewalk, and mumble a greeting; or reach into your pocket to see if you have any singles, which is kind of the simplest solution—until, of course, the next corner.
I’m no different. I’ve walked on the other side of the street, taken a shortcut, or parked my car in a spot where it’s easier just to avoid these encounters.
One of the first things I noticed when readers started paying for their subscriptions to this Substack (optional) is that I often felt obligated to walk towards rather than away from people on the street. Still, I only give money when I have time to stop and at least say hello, ask their name, and, in most cases, where they are sleeping that night. If I have more time and I’ve talked to them before, I might stay and ask how they’re doing with getting an ID, if they’ve picked up any part-time work, and/or how their partner is doing. Maybe even what they need the money for (not that either of us will necessarily believe it). Stuff like that.
I’ve always referred to the people I help as “my friends who live on the street by day and wherever they can by night.” I know it’s a bit of an affectation, but, since I’m writing about individuals, I’m uncomfortable referring to them as the “homeless,” “houseless,” “unhoused,” or “unsheltered,” as if they were defined first by their living situation and only then by, say, their age, family, what they do, etc. [I’ve never described myself first as “housed.”]
But some have indeed become my friends. Sure, at times they tell me things that turn out to be breathtakingly untrue and manipulative. On the other hand, we often laugh, make fun of each other, talk about what we’re up to that day, and give each other hugs, or at least a supportive hand on a shoulder.
Isaiah was clearly worried when he heard me cough badly after not seeing me for a few days. Melvin was genuinely concerned when he saw me with a knee brace—like neither of us wanted me to get old. And, one time, realizing it was me getting on a bike at a busy intersection, Suzanne stopped, turned around, and warned me to be really careful.1
And, of course, there are Kenny’s profound concerns for my spiritual well-being. But that’s for another time.
Not everyone uses cardboard signs. Some people—most notably Melvin—kind of sidle up next to you to make their ask. Before he flew south for the winter to help take care of his mom, Melvin was, by far, the person I hung out with most. He is endlessly entertaining. Except for maybe around 9 or 10 o’clock at night when he starts slurring a little after a day of sipping on bad beer and smoking good pot. Since his unspoken and, presumably, unacknowledged conviction is that he is on my payroll, I finally adopted a rule that I wouldn’t give him any money unless I had time to exchange more than just pleasantries. It is a rule he sees no reason to “obey.”
Melvin always appears to have all the time in the world, and I am often under the illusion I have more important things to do than hang out with him. So, my techniques to avoid meeting up with him—when I am too busy or just don’t feel like it—have become more sophisticated (and fun)—in a Spy vs. Spy kind of way.
For a while, my “cleverest,” although probably equally time-consuming, technique was to walk downstairs after finding a space in the parking garage, leave by the other exit, and then walk around the block so I approached my place from the other direction. It didn’t take long for him to catch on. One day, as I came around the corner, proud of my cleverness, I looked up to see him hanging out by the streetlight where he knew I’d eventually have to appear. We both grinned, knowing what was going on but acting like we’d just happened to run into each other.
Melvin always seems surprised when he realizes I’m serious about not giving him any money. He’ll even lean against my car as I start it up. Then, when I roll the window down and grin at him while shaking my head, he’ll say, “C’mon dad…”. (If you haven’t read earlier posts in this series about him, he calls me his “white daddy” even when I threaten to call him the opposite.)
He’s not upset. His attitude is more like he “thought we were friends…”
Indeed, we are.
I saw the first geese flying north above the Connecticut River a few days ago. Melvin should be along shortly…hanging out by the parking garage
as if he’d been there all winter.
I’ll be happy to see him.
I know, the cynical might suggest they were mostly concerned about losing a source of income. Maybe partly. But, in those moments, it’s like our dynamic is completely reversed.