WHO IS THAT GUY ON THE STREET?

In January of 2014, Jacquelyn Martin, an Associated Press photographer, was taking random pictures around Washington, D.C..  One photo, of a scruffy, dazed young man bundled up on a freezing day warming himself near a heat grate, was published in USA Today and widely circulated.  By pure random luck, his family saw the photo and located their missing son, who had recently gone missing from their home in upstate New York.   Take note:  every “crazy” person on the street is not without people who care.  “Martin said the episode serves as a reminded to journalists that every person they encounter has a story to tell.”

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It hits me worse at this time of year whenever I see a street person -- ragged, sad, cold, sunburned, with or without a sign telling me why.  I experience a painful, but momentary conflict about what to do about it.  My thoughts -- How awful!  How did she end up here?  There was a time in my own family when she could have been my own child.  Could he be dangerous?  What if I stop my car and cause a traffic problem? Dig out my purse and hand out a bill if I have one? He will just buy drugs or whiskey.  That will do him more harm than good. Should I home and get an old coat, a hat, a scarf, and bring it back to her?  Pick up a sandwich and return to hand it out the window?  

At times I have done each of these things.  

But most times I have done nothing, and I drive away when the traffic light turns green feeling badly about myself.  In that split second of indecision, it takes too much courage and inconvenience to do what I think is needed.

There is a young man that sits every day on a bench outside the CVS in my town.  He is lanky, his beard longish and scruffy, his clothing worn.  He sits there every day smoking cigarettes and staring.  Once I saw two police officers talking to him.   Apparently, someone called them to report him, but he was not breaking any laws.  I overheard them deciding that he wasn't a danger to anyone; they drove off. 

I go to that shopping center often, and the more I saw this young man, something began to grab me about him.  He reminded me of someone.  He could be anyone's brother, son.  I wanted to know his name.  On a recent stop at CVS I picked up a healthy snack and drink along with my necessaries:  Christmas wrap, makeup and medicine.  When I left, I walked up to him where he was sitting, smoking a cigarette.  Up close, I was surprised at his sweet face; his smooth skin and clear eyes.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

He stared.

I noticed he sat with a shopping bag full of things others had handed him.  He was not unnoticed by others; I felt relieved.

I handed him the food.  "What's your name?"

"Matt."

"Hi Matt.  Do you live in McLean?"

"I used to."

Conversation was going nowhere. "And now you live here on this bench."

He stared.

I looked straight into his eyes. Empty.  "Take care of yourself." I told him, then I walked away.  

Matt haunts me.  Every time I drive by the CVS, I look for him.  When I see him there, I feel helpless.  How did my greeting and snack not help him?  How is it he has a bag of things people have handed him, yet he sits there day after day in his narrow little world? 

I am not stupid.  In fact, I know exactly why he is there, and exactly why I cannot help him. I am the mother of two children who have grown up with mental illness and have occasionally been able to get the treatment that can change their lives for the better.  

Matt may be a lost cause; somewhere a family grieves for him.  I just know it.