Can’t Help Everyone, can’t help anyone

I’m inside. I’ve got a hot cup of coffee next to me and a window view of the usually very busy intersection of 11th and Broadway. Outside it is one of those cold spring days where it turns from rain to show to nothing and back to rain again every half hour. A dampness hangs in the air and chills you through and through — a coastal cold.

Just now a man crossed the street. He was wearing a backpack, had a sleeping bag stuffed under his arm and a dog on the leash. Likely, it is all he has in the world. And he’s walking fast; as though he has somewhere to be. He’s not bothering for shelters or dry spots underneath an overhang. There are a few bills in my pocket that he will likely be able to use better and spend further than I ever will be able to.

He could be the unfortunate type — the ones you read about in the headlines and see in the commercials asking for donations. But I could be wrong. He may have everything he needs.

Right now I need a roof over my head and a dry bed at night. A shower every now and again. I have memberships to a few different gyms. We go to the grocery store every week and probably spend a little more than we should on groceries. All of this is done to put on the social and professional guise that brings us to offices each day.

Sometimes on my walk to the office I’ll pass by two guys who work at a construction site (one of many in Denver right now). They have hard hats and boots and safety glasses and those florescent vests. They also carry with them giant backpacking packs with them that are loaded to the brim — all their worldly possessions. As if at any moment they could say farewell to the city and the construction and take off for the mountains for a few weeks. And in a way, they could. These two men travel from town to town working at job sites in cities where more and more people are looking to settle down. At night they’ll camp somewhere or crash with friends they’ve made or even take up a bed at a shelter. Every so often they’ll trade some of their cash for a hotel room with a shower for a night.

“We make about 90K a year” they’ve told me. Most of that budget goes back to nourishing themselves from taco trucks and pizza windows. I shuffle along to my job in front of screens and dashboards and excel sheets and think that the vagabond lifestyle might not be the worst thing in the world.

But it’s not for me, not right now. But in the grand scheme of things we’re all young.

For a few summers in college I lived out of a Jeep Cherokee. I worked at camps as a backpacking or mountain bike guide. I ran a small bike shop keeping a small peloton of bikes in somewhat working order as thousands of Boy Scouts did everything they could to destroy them. There were bunkhouses and tents and places to sleep. When programs were running everyone was together and victim of bureaucracy in the outdoors. When things were off, everyone scattered to the winds and homes and civilization and I was usually left to my own. Those nights I’d drive somewhere and lay out a sleeping bag. I’d drink beer and eat granola and fruit and just lament in how silent a place could be.

When it started raining I’d hear it off the aluminum roof of the Jeep. I’d be asleep in seconds. Morning would come rapidly and sun would fill the cabin of the jeep, windows fogged with condensation. Program would start in a few hours and I had somewhere to be.