Homeless
I was homeless. For about a week. In the summer. Okay, I know that is not quite as challenging as being on the frozen January streets of a big North American city, wondering where my next meal or shelter bed will come from, but still, there was a short time when I had no home. I was between jobs and apartments. I did not plan well enough to have the funds required to get me over the hump. Like most of my major plans up to this point they had a fatal flaw: I was in charge of the planning department. Remarkably, I had no girlfriend at the time, no car, and no friends on whose couch I wanted to camp. See, piss poor planning. As for family, I was pretty much persona non grata. My landlord agreed to let me keep some things in the basement storage area of my previous apartment, but I couldn’t sleep down there. I survived.
Yesterday, I saw a homeless man wearing my clothes. Like a lot of other people, I donate used items to a local charity, never expecting them to clutter my life again. But, here they were – my denim shirt with an American flag on the sleeve, and a pair of Nike running shoes that were the wrong size for me, but fit the unfortunate man on the street just fine. He was sitting on a wall just outside the post office. Every once in a while, he’d stealthily slip in to the air conditioned lobby to cool off, and slide out the side door back to his perch. In my clothes.
I watched him from my car for about ten minutes. I didn’t have the courage to introduce myself. If I broke that barrier, I may have to take some responsibility for his misfortune.
His clothes are cluttering my life, and I can’t stop wondering if he is me.
