Wednesday, August 2, 2017


I'll be honest, I thought he was masterbating, the way he was standing there, swaying oddly back and forth behind a truck parked across the street from my house.  In a case like this you usually have 2 choices: 1) Immediatly turn away and call the police, or 2) Move in for a closer look.  I, as is so often the case with me, chose number 2.  Good news.  He wasn't doing anyting gross, he was, however, acting weird,  just standing there, holding a bag of wheat bread and a few, day old bagles, collected, presumably, from the alley dumpster of a local bakery.  It seemed he'd stopped here, not to take in the views, but rather, because he had run out of places, and reasons, to walk. 

I approached him very much like the nosy neighborhood curmudeon, I asked, sternly, "do you need something!?"  "Not in a concerned tone, but rather in that tone that says, "get moving buddy, I own a house, I'm worried about my property values."  I might as well have shrieked, "get off my lawn!

He asked for something to drink, I said, again curtly, "I don't have anything," and he shuffled, shoeless up the gradually steeped sidewalk towards downtown.  My guilt got the better of me and I grabbed an old pair of shoes I never wear and a La Croix (I know what you're thinking) and I gave it to him.  I was very pleased with myself, particularly because someone was driving by at that exact moment and got to witness my selfless charity.  

After my awesome morning display of humanity,  I leaned back in my chair, drank my coffee, but coudn't let go of a gnawing distaste for how I'd treated the man, how I really "treated" him.  Even when I handed him those shoes, I did it with a preachy superiority.   It's the only "gift" I've ever given that made me feel bad about giving it.