Homebound

 

     He stepped this way, that way, the other way; his fingers inside a peanut butter jar; half-empty; eating and pacing. Where does one go when there's no place to go to? His hair, Jamaican style, lending a vitality to his ambiguous steps, or perhaps, it was his firefighter suit jacket that implanted the thought on my mind, causing the judgment, pre-judgement, misjudgment. 

     He began crossing the street, stopped, turned around, stepped backwards: that way, this way, again. He looked inside his jar and got his fingers dirty again; stuck in his mouth and sucked it clean. How long has it been?

     Someone, long ago, handed you a pacifier, apropos of that, immersed in something- what? What kind of parents did you have? Apple juice, milk, beer, wine? Did they imagine their baby would grow such a beautiful dreadlock? I bet they never once imagined he would end up by my window, homeless in Santa Monica, trying to decide where to go, which direction to head towards when all directions lead to nowhere.

     And just like he appeared, out of nowhere, out of nowhere he went. We shared but a fraction of a moment, but from this day forth, his destiny, his tribulations; he has made me an accomplice to it. I was busy watching him as one binge watch a series; as someone who has made to the forth season in one sitting; and is not quite there anymore. 

     In my stupor, it never occurred to me to open my window and yell to him: " Go home, man. Go home. Don't you know that parent's doors are built with spring hinges?"  

- AMENDMENT TO OUR SOCIAL CONTRACT -

From this day forth, no human being will be allowed to bear a child he's unwilling to provide for, forgive his/her/them transgressions and extend a hand in times of need.

***An exception will be extended to all religious  people who happen to bear un-traditional children. They should follow the guidance of their loving God.*** 

Straw Hat

     

     From my window I can spot you, daily. You left your things behind; things you no longer need, things you outgrew, things you carried around and finally today, it became too much for you to carry.

    Your footsteps barely carry your weight; it seems from up here, where I watch you visit this café; an oasis for your kind: their kindness, their non-judgmental service of free ice water, as cold as the Los Angelinos came to be; with their supermodel stares, as they meet and greet each other right next to you ; praising each other dogs, while you sit listening, your presence not sensed. 

     Is there such a thing as hope inside of you? Any expectation for kindness, a "Hello" perhaps, a sense of normalcy, of belonging to this city, of making through the night.

     It's dark outside, as dark as the moment that parted you and yours. How long will your steps last when already burden by days and nights, by dragging yourself and your things across town looking for a place to rest.

     If the life of a homeless person is not a testament of how human beings are coded for survival, even in the most abhorrent of circumstances.

     At some point in your day, you seem to remember how they treat you here, behind the counter, the sense of normalcy and acceptance you must derive from this place to end up here nightly. Even if the reality is that we don't care; we don't acknowledge you, and perhaps it is the reason you come here. 

     There are so many homeless in Santa Monica now that our eyes have become accustomed to it; as irises adjusting to darkness. And if being around us, unnoticed, makes you feel less alone; well,  it is the least we can inadvertently do.