Downtown Man

He’s an older gentleman, with short cut hair that is nearly vertical, a gangly walk, like a cowboy, and deeply creased lines on his once ruggedly handsome face. His speech is slurred and the imagery he uses in description is outdated but relevant. He gave me some advice once, unsolicited.

“When a woman tries to cross your rainbow, you’ve got to step with both feet forward, because that’s the only way to show what you mean.”

He’s either slightly brain damaged, or a poetic genius. He walked into the store once, approached the cashier, and opened his shirt to reveal a number of bruises on his chest.

“If I hadn’t tried to defend what I thought was my favorite car [note: he's very poor, and has no car] then they might have traveled all over the hills without me. I couldn’t stand for it.”

She was a little taken aback, and retreated to the back room. The manager came forward and told him to put his shirt back on and asked if he wanted anything. He slowly buttoned the plaid shirt back up while protesting.

“This country has some figures at its feet and if we all tried to be like Ghandi because he was so simple you know, and nobody I bet traveled his hills without him in the back seat.”

His point made, he slowly meandered away. I can’t imagine him running.

He drank tea. And coffee, occasionally. He often brought his own cup. One day I passed him on the street. He was wheeling an older woman around in her wheelchair. I nodded at him and smiled. He ignored me and walked straight on by. I think that was the woman who tried to cross his rainbow.

It’s hard to imagine where he came from. Where he�s going to go. Was he in a war? Probably. He strikes me as sort of the military type. That’s probably how he gets by, too. Veterans benefits and social security.

I know I’ll see him again. Blue jeans and clean shirt. Unshaven. Boots. He can wear any fashion, but he�s got his own style.