At Least They're Committed

I gingerly navigated Grant Street, waiting for the light to cross 19th and then cross again. My feet hurt, but I’m not about to complain. I walk down the north side of 19th Street and start past the really cool looking, U-shaped, old, brick building with iron bars on the windows and a garden area with wheelchair ramps. It’s a place where elderly folks without much money live. In the warmer weather, they camp outside atop the garden porch area, all shapes, colors, sizes and abilities, and they watch the likes of us go by. I smile but typically they just stare.

I glanced up today and there’s no one there, so I glanced down. I didn’t recognize him right off either.

He was sitting on the gravel beside the building and looked at me: leathery face, broken smile and deep set eyes.

I said, “Hi!”

He said, “Hey! I haven’t seen you in a long time! I wondered about you!”

Oh, it’s him. “I just got back from having my hip replaced,” I said as he sucked on his cigarette.

“Oh, so you don’t work there anymore? Where are you?”

“I’m still at the same job,” I say. “I was just off for a few weeks.”

“So you were working somewhere else downtown?”

“Nah, I had surgery, so I had to take six weeks off from work and stay home,” I explained.

He looked at me, puzzled. I motioned to the single crutch leaning against the red brick. “What happened?”

“I fell on the ice!” he shook his head. “Fractured my leg in two places,” he motioned to his right leg.

“Oh, NO!” I said and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gotten the health care he needed and why he wasn’t wearing a cast. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” he said and puffed. “I’m OK. . . I almost didn’t recognize you.”

You know, he’s handsome in a very lost sort of way. He’s probably about 60, but his years have flown past him faster than mine have me and have made him much older.

I said, “Yeah, my hair’s different.”

“Yeah, your hair is different,” he says, then assesses. “You look different overall, though.”

It was later that I realized that it was probably the first time he had seen me wearing any kind of color.

“You look good,” he says, giving me the up and down. “You look really good.”

So, maybe I should have been put off by that, but it was genuine and sweet and there was no malice behind his words, just a compliment. And as I’ve mentioned before, a compliment from a wearied, lost soul means a great more to me than any slick businessman or savvy rich dude.

“Thank you!” I said and smiled. “You be careful and take care. So glad to see you again!” And I started to move down the sloped sidewalk toward the bus.

“Good to see you!” he said. “And, yeah, you look good!”

And I looked at the old, red brick building with the iron bars and I thought, “I could live here after I retire and I’m dirt poor. I’d be fine with that.”

But then I thought of you, Dez, and this is not the sort of place that creates fond memories of times with your grandma, and I realized that’s not an option for me. I have to do better, not for me but for everybody else . . . for you.