At Home with the Homeless
by Cathy Fiorello
Since moving to San Francisco, I sometimes find myself on intimate terms with the homeless. There were homeless in my eastern suburban town, too, but they were not so much a part of my life as they are here. The sidewalks of San Francisco are home to 6,700 men, women and, sadly, children. Hordes of pedestrians rush past them every day on their way to work, to lunch, to life.
In my San Francisco neighborhood the homeless stake out their turf and if, like me, you follow the same path each day to Safeway, to Walgreens, to your favorite Starbucks, you encounter the same man or woman. You look for them, you worry about them when they’re not in their usual spot. My husband came home one day, visibly disturbed. “Mike hasn’t been on his corner for two days now,” he said. “I hope he’s okay.”
My husband, for whom neatness counts, has adopted Mike because he’s neat, too. His rolling trunk, “borrowed” from Safeway, is packed on two levels with everything he needs to set up home wherever the day takes him. The bottom shelf of his cart holds his folding lounge chair, should the day take a sunny turn, and an umbrella for when the notoriously fickle San Francisco weather throws us a curve. These items rest on what looks like a puffy down-filled sleeping bag. The top shelf is neatly packed with his daytime needs—a jacket for when the sun goes down and the fog rolls in, a few plastic bags holding his clothes, a magazine or two, a book, a radio. Bobbing above it all is a long-stemmed plastic rose—in bright yellow. He’s easy to find.
On the way to my favorite Boulange Café I pass a corner where an elderly woman, I don’t know her name, stands, rain or shine, her hand outstretched. Though she lives a life of unimaginable hardship, I have never seen her without a smile on her face. She doesn’t beg, she doesn’t shake a cup of coins at me as I pass in the hope that I will throw one in. She just smiles and wishes me good day. That she can smile in spite of her lowly circumstances makes it difficult for me to pass her by. When I occasionally drop a bill into her hand, and she smiles just for me, I feel she’s given me a gift.
My family loves to share stories of our encounters with this slice of our city’s population. One nasty winter day, my husband had just purchased a cup of coffee when he spotted a man shivering on the corner, blowing on his ungloved hands to warm them. How awful, my husband thought, to be without shelter in weather like this. He decided the homeless man needed the coffee more than he did, and he offered it to him. “Is it decaf?” the man asked, as he took the cup.
“Yes it is.”
“I don’t drink decaf.” He handed the cup back and resumed blowing on his hands.
My grandson tells of the time he bought a burger at a North Beach café, topped with cheese and bacon, just the way he likes it. He took one bite out of it, then he saw a man digging through a garbage can in search of something edible. He felt compelled by his good heart to give his lunch to this hungry soul.
“Here, take this burger,” he said, holding it out to the homeless man. “I just bought it. It’s still warm.” The man reached for the burger, then noticed the bite. “You bit it!” he said, pushing the sandwich back. “I’m not gonna eat that.” He returned to the garbage can and continued his search for something more compatible with his hygienic standards.
I pass through Sue Berman Park on my way to the greenmarket at the Ferry Building every Saturday. Last week, on the ground under a tree, a young couple were lying together, wrapped in blankets, smiles on their faces, cigarettes dangling from their lips. The woman looked up at me and said, “You look pretty.” The man waved at me. I thanked them and before moving on, I added, “Have a nice day.” Then I realized that they have none of the things that make a day nice. Why had they been so pleasant? Why did they look so content? By the time I got to my favorite heirloom tomato stand at the market, I knew the answer. They had each other. That’s all they needed to have a nice day.
One chance meeting with a sidewalk dweller left me more than a bit puzzled. Not far from home, on a cooler than usual day, a woman sat in a wheel chair next to a corner mailbox. Bulging plastic bags dangled from the hand grips on her chair. A blanket covered her legs. She took no visible note of the people rushing by; she was otherwise occupied. The look on her face was one I instinctively recognized and identified with. I knew the feeling behind that look. I love that feeling. She was lost in a book and nothing and no one else mattered.
I slowed my pace. I needed to know what book she was reading; I might want to read it, too. The book had a red cover and was the size and depth of a standard paperback. As I drew close, I saw that there was no title on the cover, and when I drew closer still, I could see that the pages were blank. Yet her head moved from side to side as she read print that wasn’t there, engrossed in a book that had no story to tell.
Not all my encounters with the homeless have been amicable. I was on my way to lunch with friends one day. I had dressed with extra care for the occasion and, frankly, I thought I looked good. A ragged, unwashed man sitting on the curb, picked up on my confident vibe.
“Look at you,” he called out, “strutting like you’re something. You’re just an old lady.”
Angry, I shot back, “Beats being an old homeless man.”
Not one of my proudest moments. Racked with guilt, I reported this unkind retort to my husband when I got home. “Stop beating up on yourself,” he said. “You don’t have to take everybody’s crap.”
He’s right; I don’t. But that pitiful man in the gutter, not knowing how he would satisfy his hunger that day or where he would rest his head that night—I should have taken his crap.
In my San Francisco neighborhood the homeless stake out their turf and if, like me, you follow the same path each day to Safeway, to Walgreens, to your favorite Starbucks, you encounter the same man or woman. You look for them, you worry about them when they’re not in their usual spot. My husband came home one day, visibly disturbed. “Mike hasn’t been on his corner for two days now,” he said. “I hope he’s okay.”
My husband, for whom neatness counts, has adopted Mike because he’s neat, too. His rolling trunk, “borrowed” from Safeway, is packed on two levels with everything he needs to set up home wherever the day takes him. The bottom shelf of his cart holds his folding lounge chair, should the day take a sunny turn, and an umbrella for when the notoriously fickle San Francisco weather throws us a curve. These items rest on what looks like a puffy down-filled sleeping bag. The top shelf is neatly packed with his daytime needs—a jacket for when the sun goes down and the fog rolls in, a few plastic bags holding his clothes, a magazine or two, a book, a radio. Bobbing above it all is a long-stemmed plastic rose—in bright yellow. He’s easy to find.
On the way to my favorite Boulange Café I pass a corner where an elderly woman, I don’t know her name, stands, rain or shine, her hand outstretched. Though she lives a life of unimaginable hardship, I have never seen her without a smile on her face. She doesn’t beg, she doesn’t shake a cup of coins at me as I pass in the hope that I will throw one in. She just smiles and wishes me good day. That she can smile in spite of her lowly circumstances makes it difficult for me to pass her by. When I occasionally drop a bill into her hand, and she smiles just for me, I feel she’s given me a gift.
My family loves to share stories of our encounters with this slice of our city’s population. One nasty winter day, my husband had just purchased a cup of coffee when he spotted a man shivering on the corner, blowing on his ungloved hands to warm them. How awful, my husband thought, to be without shelter in weather like this. He decided the homeless man needed the coffee more than he did, and he offered it to him. “Is it decaf?” the man asked, as he took the cup.
“Yes it is.”
“I don’t drink decaf.” He handed the cup back and resumed blowing on his hands.
My grandson tells of the time he bought a burger at a North Beach café, topped with cheese and bacon, just the way he likes it. He took one bite out of it, then he saw a man digging through a garbage can in search of something edible. He felt compelled by his good heart to give his lunch to this hungry soul.
“Here, take this burger,” he said, holding it out to the homeless man. “I just bought it. It’s still warm.” The man reached for the burger, then noticed the bite. “You bit it!” he said, pushing the sandwich back. “I’m not gonna eat that.” He returned to the garbage can and continued his search for something more compatible with his hygienic standards.
I pass through Sue Berman Park on my way to the greenmarket at the Ferry Building every Saturday. Last week, on the ground under a tree, a young couple were lying together, wrapped in blankets, smiles on their faces, cigarettes dangling from their lips. The woman looked up at me and said, “You look pretty.” The man waved at me. I thanked them and before moving on, I added, “Have a nice day.” Then I realized that they have none of the things that make a day nice. Why had they been so pleasant? Why did they look so content? By the time I got to my favorite heirloom tomato stand at the market, I knew the answer. They had each other. That’s all they needed to have a nice day.
One chance meeting with a sidewalk dweller left me more than a bit puzzled. Not far from home, on a cooler than usual day, a woman sat in a wheel chair next to a corner mailbox. Bulging plastic bags dangled from the hand grips on her chair. A blanket covered her legs. She took no visible note of the people rushing by; she was otherwise occupied. The look on her face was one I instinctively recognized and identified with. I knew the feeling behind that look. I love that feeling. She was lost in a book and nothing and no one else mattered.
I slowed my pace. I needed to know what book she was reading; I might want to read it, too. The book had a red cover and was the size and depth of a standard paperback. As I drew close, I saw that there was no title on the cover, and when I drew closer still, I could see that the pages were blank. Yet her head moved from side to side as she read print that wasn’t there, engrossed in a book that had no story to tell.
Not all my encounters with the homeless have been amicable. I was on my way to lunch with friends one day. I had dressed with extra care for the occasion and, frankly, I thought I looked good. A ragged, unwashed man sitting on the curb, picked up on my confident vibe.
“Look at you,” he called out, “strutting like you’re something. You’re just an old lady.”
Angry, I shot back, “Beats being an old homeless man.”
Not one of my proudest moments. Racked with guilt, I reported this unkind retort to my husband when I got home. “Stop beating up on yourself,” he said. “You don’t have to take everybody’s crap.”
He’s right; I don’t. But that pitiful man in the gutter, not knowing how he would satisfy his hunger that day or where he would rest his head that night—I should have taken his crap.
