He Is Not There

Lately,  an older gentleman has been sitting on a very busy corner at the end of the exit ramp that I get off for work.  Almost every morning lately, for the last week or so.  I don’t need to describe him to you.  He embodies, unfortunately, the stereotypical man with a sign on the corner.  Bedraggled.  Bearded.  Aged probably beyond his years.  Tired and despondent looking.  It is such a cliché isn't it?  And by describing him, I would only be adding to this demoralizing stereotype.  It makes him (and anyone else in his position) somehow less human by giving him these physical attributes.  I will say this – I have no idea what his sign says.  It is very ragged, and barely legible. 

But every morning, I pass him by.  Please Readers – do not judge.  Quite simply, I pass him by because I have nothing to give him – with me.  This sounds like a lame excuse, but it is one of the truest things I have written here today.  But, truly – in this day of ATM cards/debit cards, electronic fund transfers and such, I never, or at the very least very rarely have any cash on me.  I am on my way to the office – and these days I haven’t been bringing even a lunch with me that I could hand over to him; nor do I stop at a coffee shop on my way, etc.  It is quite literally me in the front seat with my phone, and that is it.  (and it has only been a week or so, so I only recently decided that his station was a trend) .  If I were on foot, I would say, “I am sorry, I have nothing on me.”  But I am rather stuck in this traffic, with the person behind me tapping on their steering wheel impatiently urging me to slink in between the passing cars.

Today – I stopped at the ATM Machine.  I would have money TODAY.  I would had over a bill to this man that I have passed by other times (hoping that the waiting cars behind me would forgive my delay).  I would say, “I am sorry sir.  I never have any thing with me.  But I see you every day.”  I SEE you.  I am not ignoring you.  I am not turning a blind eye to you, pretending you do not exist so I can go on with my day, with blinders on to your struggle.  No sir. I see you. 

I plot.  I watch the traffic – will people be annoyed at me, beeping, raising fists in the air?  Will I just have to throw the money out my window and move along?

I pulled through the bend, looking for the man and his sign. 

He is not there. 

On the barrier next to where he sits – a column of canned items (perhaps tuna or other canned meat).  A take-away bag with two containers of what I can only imagine are hot meals from a local diner.  Another three nondescript shopping bags with gifts or goodies.  He has been seen.  People have seen him, and like me, have come prepared to share with him what they can. 

But he is not there.  I tuck my money in my visor.  Where it will stay.  Until next time.  Next time I will have something to give.