The man who lives in the bushes.
I exited out of the front of our building and headed toward the sandwich shop down the street. On the corner a small man in a black suit sat hunched over--feet on the ground, clutching his knees. I watched him as I approached and wondered whether or not he would look up and ask me for something. At the last moment he lifted his head, and had there been no spine in his neck his head might have toppled completely the other way."Can you give me some change?" he said. I couldn't hear him over the traffic of Peachtree Street, but I could read his lips.
"I don't have any money," I said, "but I can buy you a sandwich."
He nodded and said something I couldn't make out. I leaned in closer. A mumble. And closer again, this time hearing him. "A Coca Cola, too?"
"Yeah, of course." His request surprised me. Not because it was uncouth for a beggar to make a request of his benefactor, but because of the child-like candor with which he requested. His eyes were sad and full of hope. And for a moment he really did look like a child, gray streaked and wrinkled.
They had run out of the proper bread at the sandwich shop for their new Cuban. The manager asked if I'd be okay with them making the sandwich with a French roll. "Sure," I said, slightly amused at the realization that my sandwich was now both French and Cuban.
The little gray man wasn't in the same spot I had left him. He had walked down the street, apparently, and had purchased something. It looked like a bottle of wine, I couldn't have been sure without my glasses on. He crossed the street but didn't return to his spot. Instead of sitting in front of the bushes, this time he crawled into them through an opening in the side. I could see as he crawled on all fours that the seat of his pants was dirty, telling me it wasn't the first time he had hidden himself behind and under those leaves and branches.
He had just finished stashing whatever it was at the center of the hedge when I approached him. I called to him and he turned to me, surprised. I think he had forgotten I would bring him something, either that or he didn't believe me in the first place. I set the bag on the stone wall at the edge of the bushes.
"Here’s your stuff, I said." He crawled up to the wall and took the bag. I handed him the drink. I was reminded of the forts I used to make in my living room with sheets and chairs from the dining room table. I felt as a father might, bringing snacks to his son and friends--for a moment, bringing them outside their mission to the outer galaxies, and deep caverns of the seas. But I knew that there could be no way this man's reason for living in our bushes could be as pleasant or full of possibility as the imaginations of young children. Perhaps, for him, just the possibility of remaining there in the shade unbothered by police or maintenance men was his greatest pleasantry.
Looking up at me, he spoke. Again I had to read his mouth to understand, although i could hear a little. "God bless you, he said." But it wasn't the same as some of the other street people I have met. Perhaps it was only that he has learned over years about effective delivery of his words. I believe that he was truly thankful. Alcoholic or not. Junkie or not. My jaded heart was softened a bit--my skepticism melted, and for one minute I was able to look beyond my selfishness, righteousness, and pride.
I wondered at how many people are sleeping in my bushes, behind my dumpsters, here or anywhere I go. I use the word "my" because the city is my place, its attractions are my places, not his or people's like him. I couldn't begin to count the times I've turned my head, or harboured disdain for our lowest caste. Much of the time my frustration is with feeling that there isn't much I can do, that no matter how many sandwiches I buy, or how many quarters I drop into street worn palms, homelessness isn't a problem to which I can bring resolution. But to know that a sandwich, a cookie, and a medium coke can put a spark in one man's eyes, a tiny glimmer of magic if only for a moment, is enough to try.
