I giggled. I smirked. I thought of many jokes I had heard before and even created a few new ones. I am human, but so was the object of my laughter. He was homeless and shaggy. His hair was a matted, salt and pepper dread mange. His beard made him eligible for a ZZ Top fan club meeting, but I doubt he chose to have it. It, like his head, was colored salt and pepper only with a few other hues mixed in from who knows what.
The only sign of him having a face was this dirty protrusion coming from the center of the mess of hair that could probably count for a nose. Other than that, it just looked much like a dirty, used cotton-swab sitting on a pair of shoulders walking in the Miami afternoon sun.
His walk was more of a broken gate than an actual walk. His shorts allowed anyone watching to plainly see that arthritis had long since left him unable to straighten or bend his knees, leaving him hobbling along the sidewalk. They almost appeared not to be under his control as he passed by clutching an empty plastic 20-ounce water bottle, which appeared to be his sole possession.
As this man walked by, I came out of my office to have a cigarette break because my life is so hard and stressful. I had to stare at first because I was not positive I was looking at a man. He seemed almost like a bear in a dirty windbreaker. He was shaking his head back and forth as he walked towards me. Well, not towards me, but toward my direction.
I could hear muffled talking, which soon cleared up into a lively debate as he came closer. I looked around to see if I missed anyone else with him, but I didn’t. He was one of those homeless people you hear about who are yelling at someone who isn’t there. It was quite a heated debate, although I could not make out any English in his ramblings.
I giggled. I smirked. I thought of many jokes I had heard before and even created a few new ones. I wondered who his carrier was and how his reception was. Mine is quite horrid there. I wondered about some other homeless guy somewhere having the other half of that conversation.
Article comments
1 - Ruvy in Jerusalem
Unfortunately, the mental hospitals did a major population dump in the late '70's anticipating a large number of "group home" settings to take in their patients.
It didn't happen.
The Reagan recession of the early eighties added legitimate folks and families to the lot, and we saw the beginning of an underclass in America. A permanent one.
I was part of that underclass for a time, combatting the bitterness that overcame me. I managed to get out of that underclass, but have never forgotten the time I spent in it. Now I see that same kind of underclass coming here to Israel, created by the same type of dog-eat-dog economics and selfishness that has gripped America for almost three decades.
Another sick export from the American paradise...
Brad, you do not have to be nuts to be homeless, as the homeless fellow in your essay was. Things can happen in your life to leave you stranded with nothing but a car and the sky for an address.
Something you should always bear in mind.