Creek Running North

He was there again yesterday. I hadn’t seen him for a while.

In January, his gentle response to my ignoring him shamed me. I’d made it a point to stop and talk to him since, hand him a dollar or two in change, ask him how things were or talk about the parrots in the adjacent park.  There was something about his unobtrusiveness, that “as clean as you can get on the streets look,” his soft answers to callous people like myself, that softened my heart to him. I was glad to see him again.

“Hey, where you been? I haven’t seen you for a while.” He turned slowly, unsteadily, in response. His eyes were dulled. He looked as though the air had been let out of him. He didn’t recognize me for thirty seconds.

And then he did. “Oh, hi. Yeah, I was on the wagon for a while back there, but I fell off again.” He hadn’t shaved in a few days. He had a whitish patch at the corner of his mouth where something had dried and begun to flake away. None of the brightness of spirit of which I’d grown fond showed through. His slight frame bent under an intangible weight. He was beaten.

“Do you have a place where you can get help when you decide to?”

“Yeah, I’m signed up for a program. I’ve been trying to get them on the phone today, but I can’t get through.”

I pointed to his Starbucks cup, the universal symbol of San Francisco mendicancy. As I’d reached him, I’d reflexively put all the change I had in there — today, about four dollars in quarters. “Well, you’ve got some change for the phone there now.” He looked dully at the coins.

My hand on his shoulder. “I really hope you can get it together, man. You’re a good guy.” His eyes were moist as he looked up. The bottom fell out of me. I hugged him, he hugged back hard.  I teared up too, and we said goodbye looking at our feet as the tourists and attorneys coming out of the Hyatt gave us sidelong glances.