How do the homeless manage? How’s that elderly man, the one I pass most mornings, as I drive around a corner? His life seems to be contained in a shopping cart, and in his gaze, which meets mine, now and then. Walking past him last Sunday, still glowing from my cousin’s birthday party the day before, I heard, “Hey, man! What th’ fuck you think you doin’!?” A homeless kid was confronting the man. His eyes locked with mine, for a split second. Then, he kicked the man in the chest, then, twice in the abdomen, six feet or so, from me and my grocery bags. The man was bent over. The kid was fast, and dangerous. Then, I heard what sounded like the man’s shopping cart being pushed over, glass shattering. I had no cell phone with me, but I saw a lady across the street, on hers, seeming to report the incident.
The homeless are my first thought, when it’s hot, cold, rainy, and when I contribute. I watch for that man, on the corner, but I haven’t seen him, since Sunday.