Discarding the Remains
Joe Suppers
A sign, one I have seen before, lays abandoned in the snow. I search for the creator.
Men and women in wool coats leave the coffee shop, clutching their disposable cups for warmth and disappearing into office buildings. Cars wait to enter the highway, their drivers distracted by the radio, climate controls, or phones. Do they notice he is missing- they must. I sat in my car yesterday in that same spot with the same distractions. I know who made this sign.
Yesterday, my car had sheltered me from rain mixed with sleet and snow, while the sign's maker walked up and down the median in the street. A plastic bag, intended for holding garbage, protected his body and hid his clothes, except for a pair of sneakers and jeans, distressed with wear, that peaked out from underneath. A ball cap covered his grey hair, which sprouted from the edges of the cap like a wild vine. Water dropped from his hair onto his ears and pooled on his shoulders, flowing down his chest and back as he walked.
He peered into the cars, searching for an arm extended from a driver's window. Yet, most of the windows remained tightly closed as drivers pretended to be distracted by their phones or a story on the radio. A few, no more than one in twenty, extended an arm from their shelter and handed him coins or dollar bills from an ashtray or purse overflowing with change.
I pretended to be distracted, but secretly I watched him.
Now I study the sign in the absence of the man. A sharpie guided by a caring hand had formed the curves and lines of each letter, which form words in neat rows. Thank You contrasts with the other lines - the letters nearly form a triangle, T as the base with a pointed U, as if each letter had made the author question himself and shy away from his original intent.
HOMELESS AND
SEEKING A JOB
THANk YOu
AND GOD BLESS YOU
A crease marks the sign where he had held it between his thumb and forefinger. A FedEx sticker runs along its right side. The sign is a FedEx box, discarded as trash or put out for recycling.
At first, I watched him like I would a tragedy on the nightly news, engrossed and searching for an explanation. Maybe he was actually well to do and begging in the rain on a cold winter day brought more money than summer sunshine. Or, perhaps he had a drug problem and could not hold a job. I analyzed the possibilities like a problem, as a spectator, separating myself from the situation and discarding any feelings of empathy.
Then our eyes met and my car, the radio, and the rhythm of my wipers faded. The eyes, green like the grass growing between the concrete, pulled me from the shelter of my car toward him, into the elements.
I stared without shame at his face, weeks without a shave. His eyes pulled me in further, communicating with silence. I understood he felt like an act, a joke, as he exaggerated a limp inconsistent with his build. Confusion and doubt undermined his attempts to understand how and why his only possession came to be the clothes and his back, a small bag, and a piece of discarded cardboard.
The gateway between our minds broke. I quickly looked away, scared that he would come to my window and ask for money. Once again, I was watching the nightly news.
I photograph the sign using my phone's camera, feeling like an investigator at a crime scene. Touching the sign, I am no longer a spectator. Created with such care and then discarded on the sidewalk, the sign disturbs me. The afternoon air driven in from the Arctic makes me shiver. What was this man's night like?
The unrelenting rain pounded his body and mingled with what might have been tears. He spread his fingers over the discarded coffee can, now a bank, and turned it over to drain. Scars from manual labor marked his hands like decoration on a soldier's uniform.
I wavered between watching the nightly news and being a part of the nightly news. I wanted to invite him into my car, even for a few minutes, just to give myself a reprieve from the scene. But, reason reminded me of the danger, if only perceived, and I began to separate myself. He could kill me in my car. He could steal it. Now more spectator, thoughts of giving him money were tempered by thoughts of him using it to buy drugs or alcohol, despite nothing to support the idea. I recalled a study that we actually harm beggars by giving them money.
I open the photo on my phone and study it, as if the picture could capture a detail unable to be seen with the naked eye. The skin on my hands, no longer in the shelter of my pockets, turns white from the dry cold. I put the phone back and return my hands to safety.
Studying the sign makes me uncomfortable. His clothes must have been soaked with the chilling rain, despite the plastic bag. I can feel the clothes biting his skin with teeth made of ice. Even Mother Nature, guided by God, the energy of the universe, or nothing at all was unrelenting and felt no compassion toward the man. I am not callous, how could it be fair to give to one beggar and not another.
I need to research homeless deaths from exposure. I search on my phone for information. I continue to be troubled.
Comforting thoughts, like he was used to it, the police would find him, or my usual it was all an act and he didn't need the money, battle with more tragic possibilities. I wish I could go back and give him money, buy him a meal, or at least invite him into my car.
Deaths from exposure happen more than I think.
The numbers on the Internet lead me to a tragic story. No longer a spectator, I am immersed into a reality that disgusts me. Thoughts of taking the sign with me give way to optimism and hope that he will come back for it. Next time, when he walks up and down the street peeking into cars waiting at the light, I'll give him money, buy him a meal, or give him a temporary reprieve from the elements.
Yet, a week later I will walk along the same street and the sign will still lay abandoned. Water stains will have made the small letters at the end of "thank you" illegible. A garbage man or good citizen will pick up the sign, complain about the litter, and dispose of it. By then, I will have separated myself from the man and the sign, confined my feelings to a moment, and discarded them. Nothing will remain.
Men and women in wool coats leave the coffee shop, clutching their disposable cups for warmth and disappearing into office buildings. Cars wait to enter the highway, their drivers distracted by the radio, climate controls, or phones. Do they notice he is missing- they must. I sat in my car yesterday in that same spot with the same distractions. I know who made this sign.
Yesterday, my car had sheltered me from rain mixed with sleet and snow, while the sign's maker walked up and down the median in the street. A plastic bag, intended for holding garbage, protected his body and hid his clothes, except for a pair of sneakers and jeans, distressed with wear, that peaked out from underneath. A ball cap covered his grey hair, which sprouted from the edges of the cap like a wild vine. Water dropped from his hair onto his ears and pooled on his shoulders, flowing down his chest and back as he walked.
He peered into the cars, searching for an arm extended from a driver's window. Yet, most of the windows remained tightly closed as drivers pretended to be distracted by their phones or a story on the radio. A few, no more than one in twenty, extended an arm from their shelter and handed him coins or dollar bills from an ashtray or purse overflowing with change.
I pretended to be distracted, but secretly I watched him.
Now I study the sign in the absence of the man. A sharpie guided by a caring hand had formed the curves and lines of each letter, which form words in neat rows. Thank You contrasts with the other lines - the letters nearly form a triangle, T as the base with a pointed U, as if each letter had made the author question himself and shy away from his original intent.
HOMELESS AND
SEEKING A JOB
THANk YOu
AND GOD BLESS YOU
A crease marks the sign where he had held it between his thumb and forefinger. A FedEx sticker runs along its right side. The sign is a FedEx box, discarded as trash or put out for recycling.
At first, I watched him like I would a tragedy on the nightly news, engrossed and searching for an explanation. Maybe he was actually well to do and begging in the rain on a cold winter day brought more money than summer sunshine. Or, perhaps he had a drug problem and could not hold a job. I analyzed the possibilities like a problem, as a spectator, separating myself from the situation and discarding any feelings of empathy.
Then our eyes met and my car, the radio, and the rhythm of my wipers faded. The eyes, green like the grass growing between the concrete, pulled me from the shelter of my car toward him, into the elements.
I stared without shame at his face, weeks without a shave. His eyes pulled me in further, communicating with silence. I understood he felt like an act, a joke, as he exaggerated a limp inconsistent with his build. Confusion and doubt undermined his attempts to understand how and why his only possession came to be the clothes and his back, a small bag, and a piece of discarded cardboard.
The gateway between our minds broke. I quickly looked away, scared that he would come to my window and ask for money. Once again, I was watching the nightly news.
I photograph the sign using my phone's camera, feeling like an investigator at a crime scene. Touching the sign, I am no longer a spectator. Created with such care and then discarded on the sidewalk, the sign disturbs me. The afternoon air driven in from the Arctic makes me shiver. What was this man's night like?
The unrelenting rain pounded his body and mingled with what might have been tears. He spread his fingers over the discarded coffee can, now a bank, and turned it over to drain. Scars from manual labor marked his hands like decoration on a soldier's uniform.
I wavered between watching the nightly news and being a part of the nightly news. I wanted to invite him into my car, even for a few minutes, just to give myself a reprieve from the scene. But, reason reminded me of the danger, if only perceived, and I began to separate myself. He could kill me in my car. He could steal it. Now more spectator, thoughts of giving him money were tempered by thoughts of him using it to buy drugs or alcohol, despite nothing to support the idea. I recalled a study that we actually harm beggars by giving them money.
I open the photo on my phone and study it, as if the picture could capture a detail unable to be seen with the naked eye. The skin on my hands, no longer in the shelter of my pockets, turns white from the dry cold. I put the phone back and return my hands to safety.
Studying the sign makes me uncomfortable. His clothes must have been soaked with the chilling rain, despite the plastic bag. I can feel the clothes biting his skin with teeth made of ice. Even Mother Nature, guided by God, the energy of the universe, or nothing at all was unrelenting and felt no compassion toward the man. I am not callous, how could it be fair to give to one beggar and not another.
I need to research homeless deaths from exposure. I search on my phone for information. I continue to be troubled.
Comforting thoughts, like he was used to it, the police would find him, or my usual it was all an act and he didn't need the money, battle with more tragic possibilities. I wish I could go back and give him money, buy him a meal, or at least invite him into my car.
Deaths from exposure happen more than I think.
The numbers on the Internet lead me to a tragic story. No longer a spectator, I am immersed into a reality that disgusts me. Thoughts of taking the sign with me give way to optimism and hope that he will come back for it. Next time, when he walks up and down the street peeking into cars waiting at the light, I'll give him money, buy him a meal, or give him a temporary reprieve from the elements.
Yet, a week later I will walk along the same street and the sign will still lay abandoned. Water stains will have made the small letters at the end of "thank you" illegible. A garbage man or good citizen will pick up the sign, complain about the litter, and dispose of it. By then, I will have separated myself from the man and the sign, confined my feelings to a moment, and discarded them. Nothing will remain.
