Insiders and Outsiders



Insiders and Outsiders


He looked up after fumbling through a bag and smiled as he handed her a cigarette. Nothing remarkable, you might say.

It was the smile that got me -and the purple glasses-neither of which I had seen him wearing before. 

She was disheveled–her hair frizzing around her head and crowding her back, badly in need of a kneading of her knots. He seemed better kempt than she was, his locks shiningly clean like they usually were. Maybe it was their bodies that showed their "sameness"-her belly protruding from under her fuchsia t-shirt in an untucked fashion, his swollen ankles sticking out from the borders of his too-short pants. 

Maybe they also shared colors. I had seen him in pinks and violets, although usually more pastel than his friend's shirt. But still, something was connecting them, hence the grin that I had never seen him direct at anyone, not even the child who had stopped to say hello one day.

Maybe they were both beggars or druggies. They seemed to share some common fate that we as outsiders weren't privy to. In that smile I saw comprehension and comradery. Us passers-by were not their comrades–we were part of a different world.

Come to think of it, I had never noticed him actually looking at people before. There was only one day that he caught me observing him and his eyes focused on me. I couldn't read what was there, but it wasn't welcoming.

He has changed his tactics since then. He used to shout out the same sentence over and over until he was hoarse. It was a bit different from day to day, but was always delivered loudly and aggressively to the world in general. "HELP ME SO THAT I CAN EAT," was the kind of phrase he repeated for hours and hours.

It's been about a week or so that he has stopped shouting, preferring to cover himself with a blanket so that only his head and hand with a cup are visible. He makes no attempt to address outsiders anymore.

Once I saw him walking in another part of the city dressed considerably better than "normal" but with a scowl still stamped on his face. I think he has an apartment somewhere unlike many of the homeless who sleep in doorways around the city. My guess is that he has a "life" outside of the hours he spends begging on the boardwalk. Where does he go during the "after hours"? What is his life truly like? Why did he decide to go into the "begging business"? Dare I approach him one day to find out? Would he even be interested in responding? 



Photo:

<a href="https://pixabay.com/es/users/karosieben-687683/?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=737057">karosieben</a> en <a href="https://pixabay.com/es//?utm_source=link-attribution&utm_medium=referral&utm_campaign=image&utm_content=737057">Pixabay</a>

Text: Kristen Mastromarchi


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