Homeless and Hungry

“Homeless and hungry, can you help?”

I heard him above the tide of roaring heads pouring down the cobblestone paved street. His voice came out from a swell in downstream traffic. A boulder parting the river. People lined up at cash registers, street stalls, and bars. They swarmed in and out of shops corralling us in. Ice cream, food, clothes, and alcohol all competed for our swipes. Their heads bounced and slid down the street choppy like white water. Store clerks standing to the sides of the river shouted,

“Pizza here! Fresh Pizza here!”

“A scoop for a buck!”

The annual escape to Florida was in full swing. We grabbed ice cream cones to close out a day spent touring. The toasted coconut chip dripped down my hand and soaked through layers of napkins. Far down the street, on the corner, was a church. It towered far above the shops and palms. White faced steeples topped with orange sun-baked terracotta tiles loomed over the crowd. Downstream the man threatened to ruin everything. The heads all beamed from sparkling white teeth. Each head wore a wrinkled brow and laughter. As we floated down the street, I saw their expressions darken. Grinning cheeks quickly spun around. The crackling static of conversation flat-lined and silence erupted. This was the one time they could get away from the boss. The one time when they had an excuse to ignore the phone calls, and emails chaining them down. How dare he.

He’s probably just going to spend anything I give him on drugs. He’s probably high right now. They thought reeling from the sting of reality. No one looked at his dark sun scorched face, into his wide bloodshot yellowish brown eyes. They saw his tattered clothes, his unwashed grey hair matted under a broken brimmed hat. They saw shoes that caused his ankles to swell. They saw exactly what they preached to see through.

I don’t see color. Jesus was a beggar. I know what it’s like to be poor. Their tired rhetoric droned on and on. Averted gazes and hasty feet revealed more than their words.

We started from the ice cream parlor to the end of the street. The man stood in the middle of the walkway, in between benches shaded beneath a palm tree. A boulder parting the river. We came within earshot, and I heard the few who responded to him in hurried canned excuses.

“I don’t carry cash.” One father said to the ground as he passed, making sure to push his kids behind him. The father feared what the man’s face might expose his children too.

“Sorry,” many mumbled unable to say no to the man. Always these people faced the dusty cobblestone street.

Each who rejected his request didn’t meet his eyes. Wide eyed staring children were the few who met his gaze. For a brief flash, he saw humanity. It was quickly snuffed out as parents scolded their curious kids.

“Don’t stare, that man is sick honey.”

A question a second, each iteration of rejection counted time, until finally the cycle was complete. We sat down on a bench just before the river of heads dumped out into the plaza. The toasted coconut chip dripped down my hand and soaked through layers of napkins. In front of us, on the corner, was a church. It towered far above the shops and palms. White faced steeples topped with orange sun baked terracotta tiles loomed over the crowd. The man stood between us and the wide wooden double doors.

“Hey, how are you guys.” Our time had come. My friends, too dumbfounded and with mouths too full of ice cream, faced the dusty cobblestone street.

“I’m all right, how about yourself?” I asked.

“Homeless and hungry, can you help?”