Read The Raconteurs' Muse Literary Journal Vol.I Page 6

  Chapter Five

  Homeless Story

  by

  Suzie Gumm

  There is a man I give money to, who sits on the corner at Canal St. and Obsidian. I think he might be around my age, but it is hard to know. His face is weathered and very tan, like old leather. He has an unkempt white beard and brilliant blue eyes, and he isn’t very tall. His clothing is an assortment of worn and dirty layers in nondescript colors, and the man’s hands when he takes the money I give him are rough and ingrained with dirt. They look strong.

  There is a bicycle the man rides, I have seen him on it; it is yellow and has a heavy frame, like a bike from many years ago. You know, with wide tires and a box fastened on the back with bungee cords. The bike leans against the telephone pole near where the man sits. He has a folded blanket he sits on, on the curb, and his dog curls up beside him, sleeping. I am glad he has a dog. She is black and white and medium size, with startling eyes, she is a herding dog. Sometimes, when it is really cold, she is not there. Once I asked him where she was, and he said she stays home on cold days, she doesn’t like the cold. I wonder what he means by ‘home?’ Does he mean a camp somewhere? Am I judging him by thinking him to be homeless?

  My sister and I were talking one time about panhandlers and I told her about the man I give money to. She told me her Pastor at church suggested that people create little ‘care packages” with plastic bags holding things like granola bars and coupons for meals and toothbrushes. Then they could give these to street people without worrying that they were “contributing to their problems.”

  I have thought about this often.

  When I give money to the man on the corner, I also give him the dignity of spending it however he chooses. It is freely given. If I were to pack a little plastic bag with ‘care items’ wouldn’t I also be packing it with my judgments and my convictions that I know best what is needed?

  But I don’t kid myself that I am all that altruistic. Giving money to my favorite homeless man makes me feel good. I usually have a few bucks in my car, just for this reason. Sometimes, I even give up my coffee money, which really gives me a satisfied feeling. Once I was out of change and I gave him a twenty dollar bill. I lived on that one for a week.

  It is hard to do right. It is easy to give a few bucks. I should ask him his name. But I don’t. He is just the man I give money to sometimes.

  Authors Bio

  Suzie is a student at Oregon State University/Cascade, and an avid writer.