David's Journey

It was a drippy, grey, slippery Portland afternoon. My oldest son and I were on our way to watch my youngest son, and his only brother, play basketball.
We pulled off the freeway at the 42nd Ave. off ramp and, there at the end of the ramp was the homeless guy. It’s not always the same guy, but there is always a guy sanding there with a cardboard sign, asking for money.
Only today, it wasn’t just any homeless guy. Today, it was David, our homeless guy. He was still wearing his used to be red converse, but an army green canvas jacket covered his too many holey sweaters. His blond hair was slicked to his head by the rain. In his hands, he held a wet piece of cardboard
The light was green, so we couldn’t stop.
David averted his eyes as we drove by.

“That was David,” I said as we turned the corner.
“Who?”, my son asked, drawing a momentary blank. “Oh, you mean that guy from Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah, that guy from Thanksgiving,” I echo, irrationally annoyed at my son for relegating David to such a one-dimensional existence.

And then I’m annoyed with David. I want to yell at him, “Why are you standing on a street corner...in the rain…begging?”

This was not the first time that I have seen David.
I saw him once, just before Christmas, on Hawthorne Blvd., when I was walking back to my car after having lunch with Carrie. I was surprised to see him there, on the opposite side of town. I didn’t get the chance to talk with him, but I remember thinking, “I wonder if he’s over here because of a job.”

Then I saw him again, in January. I was walking through the park by Lloyd Center when I saw him. He had just arrived and he was setting up…and I knew that he still didn’t have a job.
He was arranging himself on the west side of the statue, out of the wind with a hint of protection from the mist that was threatening to become a full-fledged rain shower. He propped up the cardboard sign against his crossed legs and he pulled his fingers back into his sleeves.

When I got closer to him, he looked up. The words froze in his mouth and a flicker of recognition darted through his eyes.
“David,” I smiled, stooping down next to him so we could speak, eye to eye.
“Oh, hi,” he answered awkwardly.
“Have you been doing alright?”
“Oh yeah. I’ve been spending time over on Hawthorne. I was over there on Christmas day, but no one was out.”
I am incredulous…and sad. Why would he expect to be able to panhandle on Christmas day? Why was he alone on Christmas day?! But what I end up saying is, “Yeah, people don’t usually go out on Christmas. What did you end up doing?”
“I went downtown and they were serving dinner down there.”
“You know, I meant it when I told you that you are welcome to come back over…anytime”
David lets my words hang in the air. “Yeah, sure,” he says, but he looks the other way and I know that he doesn’t really mean it.

I want to take him and shake him by the shoulders. I want to say, “David, you’re a smart guy. Why are you wasting your time sitting on sidewalks? Portland has so many services for homeless youth. Use them, dammit!”

But I don’t.
I know that he already knows this. I know that this is why he is in Portland in the first place. He told us that on Thanksgiving, that he had left Seattle because Portland was a better place to be homeless.

I want so much more for this young man. This boy who moved to the US when he was seven. This boy who has dreams of building ships.

And I know that what I want doesn’t matter. All I can do is be here, for him. This is David’s journey, not mine.
And so, I stand up, and continue on my way.
“Good seeing you,” I say.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, and he is already looking away from me, down the sidewalk, toward the next person, the person that might have some change to spare.