By: John B.

Human existence is an exercise in futility. Even in the life of one who thinks he has it all together, something will happen to bring his illusions crashing down. One of those things has happened to me, and I want it to be written before it is lost from my mind and consequently from the reach of all persons.

The parking lot lights of the Wal*Mart Supercenter made me hurry to get in the building. Rather than reassuring me of safety, they simply reminded me that it was night and not a time for a good young man to stroll around a potential crime scene. At the instant I left the car and turned in the direction of the entrance I joined the nameless mass that pushed past the real world in order to enter the plastic Wonderland.

Like the rest of the mass, I saw the Ragged Man who sat alone hunkered down by the drink machine. Like the rest of the mass I looked at Him out of curiosity. I hated myself for it because if He had not been a stereo-typical homeless person I--we--would never have noticed Him. We looked down on Him; not because He was sitting and we were standing, but because we had a place to sleep and a tub to bathe in. Our clothes were washed by machine, not by rain.

In my first glance I was joined with the others. My scorn for myself, however, made me separate from them.

I walked with the tide as was expected of me. I took a second look and noticed His down-cast eyes and matted dirty hair. The doorway then blocked my view and I continued on my path into the store to gaze around at mass produced items which the Man would never have. My own feeling of guilt was too much for me. I looked around for a short while, but my reason would not let me focus on the things around me. I was really thinking about the Man and so it was pointless to shut Him from my mind.

I went straight back to the doors and walked out. He was still there, but I did not know what to do. I wanted to interact with Him somehow, let Him know He was not alone in the world.

A girl shoved coins into a machine for a soft-drink. I wasn't thirsty, but I realized I could create a connection and an excuse to sit down if I bought a couple of cans.

After counting my change I realized I did not have enough for two drinks, so I let one of my crisp new dollar bills be pulled into the slot.

"What would he like?" I asked myself in my head.

"Anything," came a reply from the second part of my person that knows the stupidity of the first part.

Two Coca-Colas. At forty cents a piece I had to buy one, then use the ejected change to get another. With the cans cold in my hand I stepped around the machine to where the Man was sitting up against the building. I held out one to Him and he reached up and took it. He grunted an acknowledgment and put the can, unopened, beside Himself. I sank down against the machine and opened my drink. I was not uncomfortable about remaining because I was not giving charity; I was sharing a drink.

He sat for a moment like He was waiting for me to say something. I was not looking at Him, but at the crowd which I had been a part of. When He decided I was not there to bother Him He resumed smoking His cigarette which was then more ash than tobacco. Although he smoked furiously, dragging like He was blowing up a balloon, the cigarette lasted several more minutes. It must be one of the little favors that God does for His homeless; making their smokes a little better than everyone else's. I drank my Coke in casual swallows like a guy taking a break from a difficult job might do. It was hard not to seem out of place.

The Man probably wished that I would leave him alone, but he seemed to say "My sidewalk is your sidewalk," even though it really belonged to the makers of consumer Wonderland. Along with the smell of His smoke came the smell of the Man Himself. It was unpleasant, but not horrible. I could not place it then but realized later that He smelled most like old money. Of course, if He had had a stack of damp bills big enough to make the aroma, He would have been somewhere else.

Before he finished His cigarette I turned toward him and asked, "Do you sit here often?"

He grunted and said clearly, "I sit where ever I can."

His tone was peaceable enough, but He never looked up. He just readjusted his sitting position. After hearing Him speak once I wanted to hear more. He did not have a lazy or bleary voice like many people expect from a street-bum.

I kept sipping and looking at the people. Everyone who passed ignored me, but they looked twice when they saw I was with the Man. He drew the stares of everyone who came by. I started thinking about why I was unsettled by Him. It was because He didn't need to say anything. My brain was spinning, trying to create a thought that I could share with him. He was beyond talking to me. I was just on of those other people . My Oxford style shirt and leather belt that creaked when I moved made me a citizen of the world that valued the plastic Wonderland. The Man had probably never even been inside the Wal*Mart Supercenter. The only part of it that mattered to him was the drink machine which put out a little warmth if you sat close enough.

I began to know what I was feeling. I did not just hate myself for being in my situation, I hated everyone who stared. I wanted to yell at them, "You think you're so good just because you smell nice."

"All right Miss Rich Bitch, why don't you try living outside for a while!"

The Man may not have cared I was there, but I cared He was there. I felt unworthy to sit with Him. I did not know the torments that He faced. My worst days would not even be near His best days. So what if I have too much to do? So what if money does not go as far as I wish it would? He was my guru and I wanted to thank Him. While I sat at His feet watching the people pass, my sense of worth was crushed. The things I had accomplished were worth nothing. The Coke was worth everything. Because I bought two drinks I could sit by Him and humble myself. I did not glance at Him again or say anything. I was ashamed to be a Rich Bitch. My hurts would go away, but His life was a hurt. It was futile for me to speak to Him because we were on different planes.

I got up and left Him, empty can in my hand. My heart was almost bursting. I wanted to tell Him that I loved Him more than any shiny plastic Wonderland. My mind was spinning and an ecstasy of divine pain rose in my throat.

He had given me a little taste of His grimy despair. I hoped that He got a little the happiness I lost. I wanted to cry; this Man was truly alone in a crowd.

When I turned and saw Him from a distance He had not changed. The can was still unopened beside Him. The Man may have been glad I had finally gone. Perhaps He wished I hadn't left. It was impossible to tell because He looked the same as before.