Scott

I met Scott on the max Saturday. He was homeless and travelling to I'm-not-really-sure-where. I was meeting up with friends. He made a bit of small talk in the slightly-less-than-stable way that homeless men tend to though he managed coherency.

He greeted me and made a quip about the space in the tram (which really wasn't crowded). When I smiled and responded, he began talking about how he still has his sense of humor if nothing else. His words were hurried as if he were afraid that his time in my attention had already run out and I would soon become mindful of this and turn away. A few seconds of silence passed as he squatted down in the bike zone near the wall opposite me. He complimented my eyes and my sunglasses. He liked the way they were accentuated without being exposed, like a mystery.

And then shame.

He became quick to tell me he was too old (56 years) to think of me that way, that I did not have to worry. He just meant to compliment me. I reassured him that I was not freaked out and I watched as all of him relaxed. I asked his name and he looked up at me to say, "Scott" and then ask mine. We filled the space that followed with mutually believed commentary on how Americans are too stand-off when they travel and do not know how to have time for the people around them. (I am pretty sure that we bewildered the people around us to pieces, he and I.) He thanked me for my time and told me he was tired of talking to himself, that he missed conversation. He expounded on the dichotomy of security and freedom saying that if we never take any risks we lose our freedom. And again, when we seek security over freedom, we lose both.

And I listened. Through my aviators, across the max, I listened for the whole of maybe 5 or 10 minutes. And then he did what almost every homeless man I talk to does.

Scott told me that he liked my confidence. He likes the way I carry myself boldly, comfortably but not offensively. As he was talking, I passed my stop so I went over to shake his hand. He continued complimenting and encouraging me gently but firmly, not rushed to let all of his words fall out like he was when we first met ten minutes prior. Scott said that I shouldn't worry, I have a lot more figured out than I think I do, I've just got to keep the faith.

I do not feel that I really know what it is that he and Mike and Dave and Richard see in me. And I do not know why they all tell me the same things: confidence. faith. don't worry. i'm headed in a good direction. Always. And always men around the age of 55. And almost always, homeless. It is like they know that I do not trust myself in the least on my bad days.

In some unconventional way, we need each other. People like me and people like Scott. We need to have someone hand us back our humanity from whatever dark place it has been cast and let us rest awhile in friendly conversation. We cannot waste time because we only have 4 or so max stops for our familiarity to mature. I would have gladly spent more time with him to hear about the family he alluded to and just to watch him become more human.

Some of us are more visibly and more desperately clinging to our humanity than others. Scott is one of them. Too many people will never give him a real name...just labels and titles and shadows to live in. They wont remember seeing him. They are likely to be offended if he spoke to them. He is on the streets because he is alone. For whatever reason, he has lost or severed all the ties that might have caught him. I cannot help but use people like him to measure society against because the heart of a nation can be seen in how they treat their outcasts.

We are offended by them. We do not understand them and we do not have the time to. And it breaks me. I saw so many other people that same day. A homeless woman through the window yelling and crying in the corner of a building. A beggar working the St. Patrick's crowd. A woman and her pimp. Stories writhing without pages.

I had been told that the most meaningful things you can give to a homeless person, should reason and security allow, are an identity and a little human contact. And it is funny the way can you know something that has been told to you and still be blown away by it in real and living life. He never asked for money. He just wanted to talk, to remember, and to be without being alone. And he did not take my time even, because he gave too. I am bewildered by what he said to me, but I treasure it too. And I hope to understand.

Richard Gray

I met Richard in the train station. It was my first train ride. I was alone, on my way home from college for Thanksgiving. He couldn't comprehend the computer to purchase his ticket. That's how I started talking with him and found out his name. In the three or four hours following, I would learn a good deal about him including his love of the train. He informed me over and again that it is superior to the bus. I needed no convincing on that point.

Eventually, I found myself eating a dinner Richard paid for at a nearby McDonald's. I didn't have any money, and I hadn't had dinner though it was after 10:00pm. I paid for the food by listening to stories. I learned about ultra-light aircraft and Native American traditions. He wore his years unashamedly, going over some stories two or three times and proving to have had a few hard run ins with the world. Not overly bitter, but no longer optimistic, Richard informed me that I would probably live to see the fall of America. His reasoning was more unique than most and the scene reminded me of some sort of movie. He stopped in the middle to get us more food. I wasn't sure if I was hungry, but that didn't matter. He looked at me, told me I was skinny, and handed me a burger.

"They used to teach you how to think and how to get ahead, but now all they teach you is how to be a team player." He leaned over our hamburgers and told me that I had to believe him. Even if I was young and he was old, I should listen. Having listened, I'm not sure what to do with the information.

Richard seemed to me to be the most average elderly man I had ever met. He had met success by work, though he admits, not as much work as some failures he knew had put in. He had lived in several states including Oregon, Alaska, and Arizona. He had been married and I got the impression that his wife had passed away some time ago. He had tried to attend a Bible college, specifically the one I am currently at; but they took issue with his motorcycle and his cigarettes, so he left. He claims God to be more forgiving than the school. I don't doubt him. I wouldn't have it any other way.

When I left him, he had fallen asleep against a wall of the train station. It was 1 am. I boarded my train. It's unlikely that I'll see him again. I don't know if he'd remember me and I don't know what I'd do if I ran into him. But he kept me company and fed me for a night, and I am thankful. The return trip was lonelier and longer. I met a conductor who must have been trained in either the military or law enforcement. She was a short, black woman who terrified anyone sitting in a place she didn't like.

There was Mexican lady two seats behind me with three children all under eight years old. Somewhere between her Spanish and English she failed to keep them in check. The most memorable line definitely being, "Georgey, stop going savage on that chair!" If it ever was a possibility, I will never now be able to name my child Georgey. The girl next to me just rolled her eyes, checked the time, and rolled over again. I would have preferred sitting next to a talkative Richard, but there are only so many Richards.