Tim sat in the coffeehouse, staring out a window. The view was of a busy sidewalk and an even busier road behind it. He took a sip of his latte and continued to watch the bum sitting outside the shop’s door.
He had settled his location to play on the guilt of gourmet coffee consumers. The unspoken admonishment was, “You have money for a coffee but no change to spare for me?” People still passed by without offering help, ignoring his silent rebuke. He was a common figure in this area, and no one ever took notice of him. But Tim noticed.
Tim watched the man pretend to read an upside-down book while hoping for handouts. He had a sign that read, “Homeless, Hungry, Sober.” Were any of them true? In a time when it was vogue to be homeless as a profession, was this man down on his luck, without options? Hungry? Conceivable. Starving? Dubious.
Sober, of course, he’s sober. The cliche is that the homeless are drunk bums. A great way to set himself apart would be to declare his sobriety. But where was the proof? No bottle in plain sight? Hardly irrefutable evidence.
The bum packed up. Tim felt rushed. The bum turned the milk crate he was sitting on over and put his belongings in it. Tim stood up, considered going, but then sat back down. He whispered to himself, “Goodbye, Dad. Maybe tomorrow.”
