I don’t know what to say. Feel like crying. Tears well as I write. And I didn’t even ask his name.
It’s October 29. The year is 2012. It is said that there are no coincidences, and I believe it. It is said that we can never know the chain of cause-and-effect consequences of any action we take or fail to take, big or small. And I believe it. It is even said that there is no such thing as cause and effect, anyway, for that would imply time, and time is but an illusion, that there is only relationship. And I can believe that, too.
It is also said that we encounter angels in our lives every day if we would but pay attention and notice them. And I for sure believe that, as well. For today I met one.
I’m sitting at a table on the patio outside Starbucks in Big Bear Lake, California. I nurse a vente medium roast coffee while reading friend Sharon’s just published book. A couple of young men sit nearby, chatting. A homeless man walks up and stands to the side, muttering like he wants to start a conversation. And most likely panhandle, I figure. The other two young men, eying him, get up and drift away. My first reaction is to focus on my book and pretend I don’t hear or see him, hoping he’ll give up and wander off, as well, to seek his fortune elsewhere.
Then I remember a book, a novel, recently published by another friend, Ken. One of its main characters, Linda, has tumbled from a successful nursing career to surviving, homeless, panhandling on the streets of San Francisco, and grabbing bites when she can at the local Carl’s Jr.
So, I look up into the eyes of a fellow human being and ask him how he came to be homeless. He’s in his late 30s or early 40s, slender, about 5’9” or 5’10”. His face is unshaven, his hair close-cropped and thinning, his complexion ruddy. He’s clearly been in the sun. He lost his job in Indio, doing something with cinder blocks, he says. Then he lost his home. Then wandered, on foot, west and north, up into the mountains, landing in Big Bear Lake. Sleeps in a sleeping bag somewhere “over there,” he points vaguely in the direction of the lake.
“What do you do with the money people give you?” I ask.
“I buy foot-longs at Subway,” he explains hesitantly. “One of those can last me several meals.”
Since he’s smoking a cigarette, I observe that it must be a pretty expensive habit, what with how heavily they’re taxed nowadays. He admits that he’s bummed this one off of someone, that there’s no way he could afford to buy them.
“It gets so cold at night,” he mutters, eyes downcast. A hint of shiver shakes his body at the very thought of it. “Smoking helps me get to sleep.”
Has he spent a winter in the mountains yet? No, not yet.
“You’d best get back down to the valley,” I advise. “Snows will be coming down up here in a few weeks.”
I am really touched by him and his story and offer to give him a couple of dollars towards a sandwich. In my wallet, though, there are no singles; nothing less than a ten. So, I give a what-the-hell shrug, mutter something about not having change, and, not wanting to ask him if he does, hand him the ten.
Wishing him well on his journey, I turn attention back to my book. He asks what it’s about. Not wanting to engage in a much longer conversation, I describe briefly what it’s about. He glances quickly at the book, I return to reading, he turns and shuffles into Starbucks.
A few minutes later, he’s back! Oh, no, I shudder. What now? He holds out to me his baseball cap, white with a blue and red corporate insignia. I did something for him, he says, and it’s only right for him to do something for me. And offering me his cap is all he can do. He apologizes that there are some smudges of dirt on it.
“No,” I protest, “I can’t take it! You’re going to need to keep your head warm on these cold nights!”
“It’s really OK,” he insists quietly. “I have my beanie, see?”, which he proceeds to pull out of his pocket to show me.
I see that this act of gratitude on his part means a lot to him, to offer something in exchange, so I hold the cap over my heart and thank him softly, feeling deeply grateful myself for the blessings and meaning this gift carries with it.
“Go with God,” I whisper, as he wanders off again. Then I notice that the brim and one side of the cap are damp and smell of Starbucks restroom soap.
I wipe a tear, put down the book, and pick up my pen.