He paces around with a dirtied Michael Jackson T-shirt and black cargo pants, wrinkled from the days he’s worn them.
As people pass by, he asks for some spare change but they barely look him in the eye. Some ignore him out of fear, some out of contempt. Some more so out of lack of understanding, while others just don’t know what to say.
One girl hands him $2 in hopes that his pleas for bus fare are honest. People often criticize her willingness to fork over the cash, but she knows not to judge. She has no idea where he’s headed.
Maybe he does drugs. Maybe. But maybe he has a family somewhere worried about him on the streets because of his mutterings and bipolar disease.
It’s apparent he’s harmless. He starts raving on about Whitney Houston, Etta James, naturally, Michael Jackson, and other musical greats. She starts to tune him out because she’s focused more on the deep lines on his face and the slight human stench.
What he says barely makes sense and she feels the eyes of those passing by, questioning her decision to let him finish talking. But it’s the least she can do.
It worries her that she can’t do more. It bothers her that she’s standing outside her apartment door, greeted by people who can’t afford the $1.50 bus ride downtown.
How could this be? How is there possibly a place like this where people are so unfortunate, she questions as she recalls the rolling hills and identical colonial homes sitting side by side in her hometown. it’s times like these when she wonders why she left the safety of suburbia after all.
it’s an eye-opening experience, but it scares her that there are so many people out there in pain. She wishes she could save them all.