Stop and Listen

Someone was yelling loudly. A domestic dispute this early? My eyes panned the condos at the eastern edge of Rocky Mountain Lake. Nothing. I turned my binoculars back on the lake, hoping to spot the wood ducks again. Nary a one. The “hoodies” were putting on a show however, with three males touting their flared heads at the lone female they were all after. Poor girl. Hooded mergansers, the males looked like they had on Roman helmets with plumes waving, going off to war.

“THE LORD DELIVERTH! THE LORD GIVETH AND THE LORD TAKETH AWAY!”

“What?” Now I could hear what someone was yelling. Turning I saw a woman walking up from Federal Blvd, a backpack on and an open book in her palms. She appeared to be screaming bible verses.

I had seen this woman yesterday on the park bench, sitting quietly, an open bible in her lap, feet tucked into a sleeping bag, a hot convenience store cup of coffee in hand. Eight hours later she was still there, only asleep on the bench. The cup had rolled down to the lake’s edge. It was the evening of the same morning I had experienced duck bingo. (See blog piece entitled, "That Duck.") I couldn't resist stopping by on my way home from work, wanting to close the day with another peek at the variety of feathered creatures I had seen earlier in the day.

This was the very next morning and it appeared the wood ducks had only been visiting the previous morning. Too bad, but I was enjoying the rest of of the travelers. Looked like some ring-necked ducks had even popped in. The lake had been so serene just minutes before, and now this ranting. It was unsettling. She walked to the other side of the lake from where I was standing, knelt down, and raised her voice a couple of notches. At least she was sending all the ducks my way.

Who is this woman? What is her story? She knew how to pick out a good spot to spend her days. Yesterday I had looked carefully at her sleeping face. She was pretty, and maybe close to my age. She, too, had spent a lot of time in the sun, only she obviously still was. Her face was leathery and brown, her dirty and unkempt hair pulled back in a clumsy ponytail. A backpack and a bible were her possessions, the sleeping bag riding in the pack when not in use. Whose child is she? Does she have children, a spouse, siblings, friends?

Samuel Johnson and his sister came to mind. He had interrupted my search for meter change standing outside my car one afternoon recently. “Could you spare some extra change?” I heard through my closed window. Oh, gosh, why did such encounters make me feel so edgy?

“What are you going to do with it if I give you some?” I demanded, hearing the arrogance in my inquiry and hating how it sounded.

“Head right down there to that café and get a bite to eat,” he answered kindly.

“Oh, ok, let’s go down there together and I’ll buy your lunch.” I popped some money in the meter and checked the time. I only had about 15 minutes before an appointment down the road. I had parked in front of a baby boutique where I had planned on running in and grabbing a growth chart for my grandson’s first birthday. Now I was traipsing down Broadway’s sidewalk with a homeless guy.

“So what’s your story? How did you become homeless?” I asked, trying to take the edge off my attempts at a conversational tone, but still hearing it as I hurriedly moved us toward the café.

“I’m a Vietnam vet,” he answered, like that answered the question, pulling some card out of his pocket. I gave it a glance, then looked at him.

“How does that make you homeless?” I kept on, curious, but sounding so insensitive. I couldn’t seem to stop it. “You don’t look much older than me. How old are you?”

“Fifty-two.”

“Four years younger than me!” I admit I was doing the math and wondering if that vet card was legit. The war was ending during my final years in college. Maybe he went to Vietnam toward the end of that mess. Oh, heck, what did it matter? I asked his name; he asked mine.

“Patricia? That’s my sister’s name! Patricia Johnson. We always called her PJ.” He seemed so delighted about all this. I stopped walking.

“What a coincidence,” I said. “My maiden name is Johnson, and I was always called PJ too.”

Sam was elated, saying he couldn’t believe it, slapping his knee like he had just found family. We entered the café and I pointed the menu out to him, suggesting he pick something out so I could pay for it and be on my way. His smile fizzled and he looked confused, not sure what to do, or what to order. Me and my god damn hurry. I think he thought we were going to have lunch together. And why not?

A waitress stopped by and suggested we have a seat. I pushed eight bucks in her hand and told her it was for Sam’s ham and cheese omelet and a tip. She surmised the situation and seemed to get the idea. I turned to leave. For all I knew I could be getting a ticket from Denver’s parking Nazis by this time. After all, I’d only put in a quarter.

Sam looked sad and reached out to hug me. It was a gentle hug, and very appropriate - this tall, black man in worn and dirty clothes, and this busy white woman dressed up in her clean clothes. His eyes teared up as he looked at me with utter kindness.

Why didn’t I stay? I rushed out, bought Robbie’s birthday gift, and made it to my appointment on time. I felt awful. What if I had sat down and talked with Sam during his lunch? Bought Robbie’s gift later, skipped my appointment, risked another parking ticket? He hadn’t been drinking, and had even acknowledged that he figured I was buying him lunch so he wouldn’t use the money on booze. But what he really seemed to want was company, someone like his sister to chat with. I missed an opportunity to slip out of life as I know it and get to know someone else’s story. Maybe understand humanity just a little bit better. I take time to watch ducks, for God's sake, why not take time for something like this?

Those of you who are teachers or parents, do you ever look at your students/children and wonder what they will be like as adults? Sometimes worry about the consequences of decisions you are seeing them make now and how those will manifest later? Often I look at adults like Sam and the bible lady at the park and wonder what they were like as children, and where their story went awry. (Of course I’ve come to understand there are those who have looked at me and thought the same thing.) Oh, if only we would really look at each other. Look closely. Slow down. Take time. Risk. Stop and listen.