When I met him, he was furious; not at me, he hadn't noticed my presence yet, busy he was, head down, clothes in need of washing, furiously trying to get food off an empty can of something. He ran his finger inside the can and took it to his mouth and repeated this action, each time getting angrier and angrier with the futility of it. There was nothing inside the can; no nutrients that would sustain a man his size.
I can't never tell someone's age, nor can I recognize faces, which made it so easy to forget undeserving people. In appreciation for, what they perceived to be an act of forgiveness, they would always try their hardest to knock me off my white horse. I would venture a guess that this creature in front of me was in his mid-thirties; I can't be sure. A homeless man is an animal like the ones you see at a forest with scarce food supply: extremely unpredictable, angry, and unlike other animals in nature, aware of his condition: that being how irrelevant his existence is to the rest of us. This one sits at a bus stop on the famous Sunset Boulevard, near The Comedy Store; how funny is that?
If you were to sit across the street from this particular animal and watch, you would think he was waiting for Godot, while improvising a funny sketch to kill time. But I. I was two feet away from him now, curious to find out what possibly could he have done to end up alone, a few days shy of Christmas, in what was once known as the city of angels. But there are no angels here any longer, you learn that quickly just by losing count of the many opulent law offices spreading along the boulevard; lawyers inside so well fed that one has to ask what is the herd up to.
I watch, waiting for a propitious time to address him. I come to the conclusion that I needed to wait until he accepted that there was no nutrients of any kind to be had from his can. Long ago, I stood between a friend I loved and his bottle; I still bear the psychological scars of that misguided decision. Love* is, and don't let the romantics convince you otherwise, either a trolley rusting inside a museum, or an out of control wagon filled with homosexuals, gaining speed downhill, in any hill in San Francisco.
All of these thoughts run through my head while I watch him feed. Twice now I saw the cars line up behind each other at the red light and drive away. Countless time I asked what have I done to be so alone? Near here, at the same boulevard, lives the Blessed Sacrament Catholic church where the family business of the priests in charge, brothers Mark and Arthur Falvey, was molesting children: five young girls and five young boys. For symmetry, I suppose. Both men of God were forgiven, reformed, as the catholic church bought back their soul with a sixteen million dollars check. Both siblings died there, at the blessed church, sheltered and well fed.
I once encountered a family of mountain lions while hiking at an early morning in the Santa Monica beautiful mountains. I was distracted by my own demons when they walked out of the bushes and crossed the path in front of me. A cold feeling ran through my veins, the same I feel now when I realize that this animal in front of me is giving me his full attention. How long has it been? I wonder. Was it enough for him to fully assess me? The only thing one has when encountering a dangerous animal is the brief, ephemeral instant when it is not clear how dangerous you are to him.
He stares at me now. Compounding the situation is a not so funny inner voice I possess that suggests to me: " See? You should have immediately yelled stardenburdenhardenburt." which made me laugh inappropriately. Curiously, this softened his gaze, as if he had perceived this to mean that I was comfortable being there, twin souls we were. Having no other option but to stay with the ruse I asked: " what the hell are you eating there, my man?" He smiled at that, looked back at his empty can and stood up, revealing to me his height, which I can't precisely specify with a number, but knew to be far above my 5'11, 145 pounds frame.
I watched him toss his can in the garbage nearby and move back to his seat with an elegant cat like demeanor. He had the same level of comfort one has when one, having witnessed or suffered violence and ugliness at an early age, becomes immune to fear, and at the same time prudent, aware of the scope of damage a human animal is capable of.
" Trying to survive." he answered my question from long ago.
"Great" I thought. You and I have something in common after all, as I stood before him listening to his life story.
* the little kitten on the photo is my cat Shades who passed away in 2019. I loved her. She hated my guts over a misunderstanding in regards to a flying sandal; she scratched me any chance she got and never once took any responsibility for breaking my favorite one of a kind kerosene writer's lamp, which she moved across the table until it splashed on the floor. She too was hungry.
