Dead Man Walking

Walking down the median of Plant Street, a homeless individual like any other thrusts out a crinkled sign with wobbly squiggles.

Anything Helps

God Bless

I lower the music to which I was singing along to until I spotted him. I grow still, averting my gaze, keeping my eyes straight ahead and for the love of God pray he never reaches my car, that the light turns green before I get a look of him up close. My prayers go unanswered.

A knock on my window. And another. The sign is waving in my peripheral. I’m forced to look this guy in the eye. He might have had fifty odd years on him, grime inked between the creases of his face. Puke stains covered the front of his striped shirt. Despite the mid-summer heat, he wore a tattered army green jacket. The glass between us saves me from the likely putrid smell of sweat and piss from invading my recently paid off red Porsche.

White knuckling the steering wheel I mouth, sorry, hoping he gets the message. I expect him to go mad, to shout, pound his chest like a wild animal, but he wastes no time continuing down the line. A few cars down he collects a bill from an outstretched hand. I don't carry cash, who does nowadays? It's not that I didn't feel bad for the guy, it was out of my hands. A problem for society to deal with. Not something a middle manager of a small company can solve. That man would still be begging on the streets the next day even if I slipped him a fresh twenty today. Times are tough right now for everyone. His best bet would be to apply himself and get a job already. No one could survive without one. If I lost my job today, I shutter to think that I would end up like this poor loser peddling on the side of the road. I shouldn't feel ashamed for thinking the way I do. But I do. Every time.

I see the man time and again, day after day, wearing the same clothes, carrying that poorly written sign. Sometimes I would witness the police talking to him, pointing at the cart he used to carry around all of his worldly possessions. He never fights back, gingerly taking his items out of the cart and letting the police take it back to whatever store he pilfered it from. It’s not long before he finds another one to use though.

Each time we have our one way exchange of me refusing to subsidize his lifestyle, I pray to whoever that the homeless cease to exist. To the government to have a heart and provide housing to our fellow countrymen. I never wanted to look him in the eye again. That sunken face haunted my dreams some nights. It’s not my fault and yet, those eyes bore into me, begging to be saved. I wish with all my heart on those nights that I never see him again.

Then one day, I actually don't see him. I look over my shoulder, in the rear-view, behind bushes. Huh. Maybe he got taken off the streets or put in some sort of group home. Whatever the case, he's not there. I blast the music, the light turning green. I round the corner, belting from the top of my lungs the chorus. I don't see him.

As my car rounds the corner, I end up hitting the curb. A twinge of embarrassment takes hold but subsides.

It's not until the cops show up that I know something is wrong.

“Is everything alright?” I ask the two cops who wait for me out in the lobby of my office. They called me down while I was in the middle of a presentation. I check my watch. Almost noon now. I had an important deal close the deal before then.

“Mr. Sutherland? We need to bring you in for some questioning.” spoke the smaller lady cop.

“What for?” I cough, adjusting my voice to be more polite. “What's this about? Is everything okay?”

The two cops exchange looks. The larger of the two spills the beans, figuring there was no use beating around the bush.

“You're wanted for the hit and run off Plant Street that took place this morning.” He rested his hand on his side, finding the metal that rests there.

“You’ve got the wrong guy. The only thing I’m guilty of is taking too sharp of a turn and...” hitting the curb. It had to have been the curb. The road was clear otherwise, no one using the crosswalk at the time. I dart past them, finding my car in the parking lot. A shock wracks my body, dropping me to the blacktop. Craning my head towards my car, I see it. Red on red. A rust-like substance dried on the bumper.

No. How did that get there? I might have hit the curb on my way to work, definitely not a person, a living human being. Oh my God. Did I kill someone?

“Mr. Sutherland,” A sure voice speaking once more. I hear the weighty footfalls of the big copper.

I didn't do this. Someone stole my car, drove down Plant Street… Plant Street. The intersection I usually saw that old homeless dude begging for handouts. Bile rose in my throat. The weight of my body slammed against the hood of my car. Metal laced around my wrists behind my back.

“He wasn't there!”

“You have the right to remain silent.”

I laugh, hearing that iconic line in real life. This must be some sick joke. I figured that old guy somehow made it off the street. He's dead? His large hand tightens around my shoulder, securing me in place until his partner pulls around in their cruiser. I'm tossed inside like one would toss trash bag into a compactor. Familiar faces stare back at me from the building windows, no longer potential clients reflecting my disbelief back at me.

“He wasn't there,” I repeat. No one responds. My cries for help, unheard. I notice for the first time that I had involuntarily wet myself. My head hung in shame, I make a new wish. Please, someone take pity on me and save me from this nightmare.