San Francisco is an intriguing place. So open to the individual choices of its inhabitants, yet so very cold. I talk not only of the weather, but also of the nature of the people that live there. There’s a numbness that comes from minding one’s own business, a numbness that likely finds its roots in a desire to be safe from harm from strangers. Of course, this phenomenon is found not only in large cities, but it is certainly much more noticeable when folks are packed into small areas – dead spots where the inhabitants refuse to look each other in the eye and the plight of others is just that: the plight of others. I spent four days in San Francisco last week at a seminar learning a new jury selection technique.
The classes I attended were not at the hotel, so I had to walk to the law school each morning. The first day, I noticed a large man in a wheelchair. He was parked literally in the middle of the sidewalk. He was wearing a big coat, a blanket in his lap and he had the hood of his coat pulled over his head. He appeared to be sleeping with only his matted hair protruding from under the coat he wore as shelter. As my eyes fixated on the sight before me, I was drawn to his uncovered left foot. It was shaped like a football and had noticeably large sores in several places. His toenails were no less than half an inch long. The red and swollen appendage rested on the sidewalk like a limb of a tree that had been broken in a storm. Still connected, but hanging lifelessly. In other words, so much dead weight. I wanted to look away.
I found the sight to be quite disturbing. As a boy growing up in Bentonville, I did not see this kind of thing. I have now lived in Little Rock for over a decade, and the sight of the homeless on the streets is no longer such a novelty. But it is still a sight with which I cannot get comfortable. The truth be known, when you cut through the b-s, I’m nothing more than a bleeding heart. That’s not to say I don’t believe people need to be responsible for themselves, only that I’m aware of the fact that there are a lot of unfortunate folks in the world, many of which couldn’t dig themselves out of the hole they’re in even if they had a golden shovel.
I told Patti about this man that had caught my eye, and she told me to be careful because he’d likely seen my picture on a homeless Web site – one that specified me as an easy mark. I laughed, but the sight of the man in the wheelchair certainly was not funny.
The next day, I walked by the old man in the chair and he caught my eye. He grunted something and shoved what appeared to be a twenty-dollar bill in my direction. He wanted two strawberry drinks. He asked me to go in the store he was parked in front of and buy them for him. He had to make the request three times before I understood what he wanted me to do. I went in the store, which of course was out of strawberry drinks. I go back out, give the man the bad news, and he says “orange.” I go back in and then realize I don’t understand if he wants orange juice or an orange drink, so I step back outside to ask him.
As I approached, I saw the disappointment in his eyes. My hands were clearly empty save the folded up twenty-dollar bill. He bellowed out in the clearest voice I had heard yet “Two Pepsi.” I turned, went inside, bought two Pepsis (with my own money) and returned to my new friend. He pointed to the ground next to his left wheel. I put the cans down, handed him his money and told him it was on me. I walked away feeling very good about what I had done and myself. I was a real humanitarian, not to mention the guy was clearly able to tell I was an honest man since he trusted me with the twenty-dollar bill.
I made my way to class with a warmth and contentment I had found lacking in the cold winds of summer in San Francisco.