secluded

I round the corner and he’s sitting against the wall of the grocery store about a block away. He’s furiously sketching in a small notebook. His clothes are somewhat raged and his hair looked unwashed. A woman, walking toward me, stops when he says something. She shakes her head slightly, says something and hastens her pace. After the woman passes, he turns his attention back to his notebook. He has a backpack against the wall next to him.

Days are getting warmer. Those without homes or jobs will be out more frequently. They rest at the corners and lurk in the shadows. They try to make money the only way they can, without bothering those they ask for it. They stand at freeway on-ramps with ripped Coor’s boxes, announcing their desperation with messages ending in “God Bless.” They ask politely for spare change, they write poetry for pennies and they play instruments for the people that pass them, pretending not to notice.

I see them with their metal cups resting in their hands. I see them hovering around bus stops. I hear them asking for change on the light rail platform while people flock from their jobs to the sanctuary of their homes. “Could you lend two dollars for bus fare?” “Could I get a few dollars for a sandwich?” “Have any spare change?”

I sometimes give change or a couple dollars to some that ask. Maybe they’ll spend it on booze and end up inebriated at a bus stop later that night. Maybe they’ll use it to buy cigarettes and perish next to a dumpster in the dark, all alone. Maybe they’ll go back to their south-side apartment, put the change into a gigantic jar and relax next to their television before making a sandwich for dinner. In any case, sometimes they need it more than I do.

In Los Angeles, one man asked for a couple dollars to get a beer down the road. My friend gave him the money because he admired the man’s honesty. Later, we saw a man laying in the fetal position in the center of the sidewalk on a quiet side street. “They’re all over around here,” was what my friend told me. We passed him, giving him distance, and resumed our conversation as though he’d never been there. Even in plain sight, blocking our direct path, he was hidden.

Most of them remain invisible. They spend their days in a public library or wandering around a park. They talk to themselves or converse with others. Hundreds of people walk by them without seeing them. They’re on their Blackberries, making a phone call, adjusting their shoulder bag, staring ahead blankly or talking to the people around them. They are too busy, too hurried or too oblivious.

I cross the alley and the man with the notebook hears my footfalls. He glances to his side, shifts slightly, but waits until I’m closer to ask, “Any spare change?” I shake my head slightly, trying not to be emphatic. I continue, careful to keep my pace even though he wouldn’t be offended. He sees it all day. But, if I rush off, it would seem like I’m embarrassed.

I justify it. I need to do laundry by the end of the week. Still, the two quarters feel heavier in my pocket. They’re from the post office where I just mailed a cash-back rebate for my new phone. They bump against one another with the sound of clash cymbals. I try not to seem embarrassed, but maybe I am.