There's a bag slung over his shoulder. Black, ripped, bursting at the seams with aluminum cans. Unfit for the use of anyone. The bag is at maximum capacity, ready to burst if the man places anything else inside. He wears a filthy green coat, or perhaps it's teal, it's hard to judge from the weeks of grime that mark his clothing. There are different variations of holes, his too baggy jeans alike. He must be melting, it's close to 80° F outside, but he must carry his coat upon his back. All that runs through my mind is "I'm sorry... sir."
As I pass the man, he smiles at me, though rather weakly. His head is down, as if ashamed. The hair upon his head is matted and grey, and I can see his receding hairline. I scurry past him, and just as I do, a wave of sarrow takes ahold of my body. Why is he like this? Why is this man so sickly and miserable? Surely he cannot be a begger like half of the others who "need assitance", he doesn't strike me as a man who begs in return for alcohol to drown out his system. Could he have actually done anything to deserve being treated so badly, or was it the strike of luck? I can feel this mans pain, mystery and stereotype.
Grown men are now throwing things at this man. As if -as filthy he may be- he was a human dumpster. The mystery men laughing, making jokes I'm unable to hear. I'm sure that it has to do with the man they are assaulting. I'm stunned, words escape my body. I'm still close to the man in the green jacket, yet his pain feels like my own. How can grown ass men treat someone with such indignity. Surely he hasn't done anything to harm these men. Even if he had, no one deserves to have Strabucks leftovers, among other discardable items, thrown at them.
I was at the cross walk now, finally able to calm down. I was making my way home; "Can you perhaps, spare some change?", I heard a voice croak, trailing off at the end. His tone of voice indicates shame and other miscellaneous negative energies. You haven't a need to be ashamed, I wish I could whisper. I know that I do not have what he is looking for, which makes my heart sink a little. "No. I don't." I say flatly. I feel upset for this man, but being a young woman I have to stand my guard. I feel an indescribable pain brush through my veins. It's the kind of hurt that leaves as quickly as it came. The man looks upset, but continues oh his journey. Perhaps he's going to recycle the cans in his bag, or pick up more.
Most of the time I scoff at beggers, cigarettes in one hand, sign in another "Need Money, God Bless". Surely if they were desperate enough they would have figured out a -logical- way out of the situation they wound up in. There is that every once in a while when you see someone you know is in pain; it's visible and fresh. Yet, we do nothing to those who truly need it.
I'm sorry, I wish I could have helped you. I wanted to. You do not deserve the ridicule you recieve on a daily basis. To have just the clothing on your back must hurt deeper than one can fathom. I will never know your story, and I don't even remember your face, battling this, the world, must take imence amount of strength. Especially when you only have yourself. For that, I thank you. I hope for you the best, and everyone in your situation. Even though our encounter was brief, I will never forget. Ever.
