Look Homeward, Angel

No one should have a local homeless man but in big cities, that's often the case. I only lived in the neighborhood a month before I saw him, sitting and leaning against a wall. His head usually lowered, a blue knit hat on his head. He didn't beg for money. If he was looking up, I said hello. He would nod back and sometimes choke out a word. I think it was Hello but I can't be sure.

One day I asked him if I could buy him breakfast at McDonald's, which was across the street. He said yes but didn't tell me what he wanted. So I asked if I could get him what I got myself and he nodded. Didn't he know what was at McDonald's? Or was he too proud to tell me what he wanted? Afraid it would be too much?

After that day, I became very aware of how often I walked by him. Was I supposed to buy him a meal each time? Coffee?  If I'd had the money, I would have bought him food every time I saw him. But I didn't. And when you're down on your luck, what do you offer someone else down on theirs? My recent financial situation had been shaky and I no longer thought my hellos were enough. So every now and then I crossed the street before I got to him. Or cut through a parking lot to avoid seeing him. I was ashamed that I couldn't help this man because I had to help myself first. It bothered me every time. I felt horrible and hated myself on the days I ignored a man so down on his luck that he sat in the same place each day, head lowered, waiting for what? My hello? Any hello? A sandwich?

And then one day a month ago I saw this:

I live in a Hispanic neighborhood and like the ancient Egyptians, they believe you need to leave food, water and light to guide the deceased to their final destination. I completely lost it when I saw this makeshift memorial. He was found by the manager of the McDonald's, who had come over to offer him a cup of coffee. The police came. The ambulance came. It was all over.

A man walked by and saw how distraught I was and he said he was too. That he passed the man for months and never said a word to him until a few days before he died. He asked him how he ended up on the street and the man replied he had come to California to better his life. I cried the entire way home.

This is what remained of his things:

 The last possessions of a man who was lost in Los Angeles. And in the world. The memorial is still there, the candles lit every night by some thoughtful people trying to guide his soul home. If he had no family, no identification, where would he be buried? Who would take care of his affairs? Or did he have any to take care of? So this memorial may be all he ever receives. All that marks his place on earth. At least until he returns in another lifetime.

I hope he sees it and knows how sorry I am, how sorry we all are. And that we hope he's at peace.