Dirt

I saw a homeless guy today. Which is not unusual, especially in LA, where even millionaires try to look as slovenly as possible. But there was something about this guy that made me notice him. He was in the crosswalk at Third and Vermont, talking to himself as he made his way across the street. His face was deeply tanned - he'd obviously spent most of his time outside - and he was wearing a jacket in the afternoon sun of a 75 degree day. He was worn and weary and thin from what was probably years spent on the street. Again, not unusual. But his feet were.
   He was wearing flip-flops, and his feet were black. I'm not engaging in hyperbole here, they were black, as if he'd walked through coal dust, with paler bits showing through where the grime had scraped off during his wanderings. And I realized that even the filthiest homeless person I'd ever seen in Pasadena didn't have feet that dirty. This guy must have gone weeks without a shower, without either the opportunity or even the compulsion to clean off in a gas station bathroom.
   That's a guy who needs help. And he's obviously not getting it. He's out on the street right now, maybe huddled in the doorway of a vacant office building or hiding out by a dumpster, trying to keep warm when it gets cold after midnight.
   On the rest of the ride home I got to thinking about how I'm sometimes less than satisfied with my lot in life. Things could be better, sure. But I'm living like a king compared to that guy. I have money, a car, a job (for now), and people who care about me and who would help out if I started wandering the street muttering under my breath.
   I got to wondering what choices that guy made that put him where he is, or what choices others made for him. And then I got to wondering what he thinks about his desperate situation when he's talking to himself because that's the only company he has.
   Man, sometimes I wish I was less observant.


COMMUTE - there - 35 minutes      back - 45 minutes, stalled car on the 110
CONTRACT COUNTDOWN: 41 days