Touchstone

It caught my eye because it was out of place: a big, speckled gray mass on the ground across the back of a bench at a Los Angeles public bus stop. It only took a few seconds for me to then realize there had to be a person there, completely wrapped up in blankets, sleeping - or at least hiding - even though it was late morning. 

Homelessness isn’t as much of a thing in Italy as it is in Los Angeles, where in normal-non-Covid times, I’d go to visit both my mom and my transplanted kids who have - for now - forsaken their Italian upbringing and a pre-Covid 24% Italian unemployment rate for potentially brighter - at least financially? - futures in the USA. 

Like everyone else that morning I walked right by that gray blob.  I had coffee to get and a granddoggy to walk.  But then I detoured to the market for oatmeal, milk, extra large (according to Italian measure, maybe medium according to American) paper cups with biodegradable lids and corresponding disposable spoons.  I hurried back to my daughter’s apartment where I was dog sitting, ran her espresso machine to make a sweet milky coffee, and boiled water for that instant brown sugar and cinnamon oatmeal that I loved as a kid. Back at the bus bench, I put the cups down near the end of the blob, and then, not knowing if I’d find a kind-but-battered soul or a raging, frustrated one, I backed away and announced “I’m leaving oatmeal and coffee here in case you’re hungry.” The blob immediately came to life and a small, gray hoodie-covered head popped out to say “Yes, yes, thank you… I’m so hungry.”  I said I’d try to come back with more and then walked on, realizing only after a full minute that I had my hand over my mouth and tears streaming down my face in disbelief that this is something normal in our world now.

Later that afternoon when I brought him some risotto, he popped his head out as soon as he heard my voice.  He sat up this time, told me his name was Charlie.  I’d done some internet searches on what the homeless might need most and asked him if he had shoes.  He pointed at light hiking boots that looked new.  I had no idea how tall Charlie was but from his seated torso, I suspected that those shoes had been given to him, but would be too small. 

“What size shoe do you wear, Charlie?”

“13”

“These aren’t going to fit you then.” 

He looked down at his risotto, saying a quiet “I know,” and then, bright-eyed, turned to me saying “Do you want them?” with such generosity it about broke my heart. 

He told me that everything he had had been stolen, that the shelter down the way opened at 5:30pm, but he didn’t like it there, with everyone fighting like they do.  “There’s food there, though,” he said. 

The next morning Charlie was still in position behind the bench, under the blankets. Today I’d brought my son along who had helped me find size 13 shoes and some other clothes to give Charlie along with a sleeping bag and pad, plus a big nylon stuff bag he could use to carry everything. 

This time when I spoke, Charlie not only sat up but he pulled the hood off of his head, like someone removing a hat out of respect, his short, nappy, gray hair cluing me in a bit more to his age.  When I introduced my son, Charlie held out his hand in greeting, and then quickly tried to cover his face, mostly the side where it looked like a piece of his jaw was missing. Crying, he said “I’m so ashamed of how I look. I’m sorry that I’m crying.” I instinctively reached out and rubbed his shoulder, telling him “Charlie, this is really hard what you’re having to go through.” He cried about not having been to church in so long. We quickly looked up the nearest church and explained how he could easily walk there.  We gave him the few things we’d brought, the sleeping bag for last.  He said he didn’t know what it was, so I explained how he could unroll it and how the zipper worked.  He stared at it in what looked like delight.  Then he took my hand and looked at me with his bloodshot eyes saying “God bless you. I love you.” He said so many people walk by here and nobody stops. “I know, Charlie,” I said because I’d seen it myself over those few days. “But look, we’re here.” Then channeling Mr Rogers, I said “Look for the helpers, Charlie.  Keep looking for the helpers.”

That night I noticed that there was no longer a gray blob behind the bus bench.  Just an oversized trash bag stuffed full.  I wondered if Charlie had left everything we’d given him there in the bag, thinking it might be safe overnight stored under that bench.  I wondered if he’d be back.  The next morning I saw the trash bag ripped open, the now unnecessary gray speckled blankets that had filled it, pulled out and left abandoned on the sidewalk for people to step around. 

I never saw Charlie again. Never heard his gentle voice speak about how he was determined to move on from living life on the streets. I don’t know if he ever got to the church or the Social Security office he’d told us he thought would help him given he was over 65, or if he was able to hold on to the few things we gave him.  

In the end, maybe knowing these things doesn’t matter.  

Because I think of him often, like a helpful touchstone that is a crucial reminder - especially in these times we’re all in now - of how what matters is that 

I saw him  

And he saw me 

For the helpers that we both are.