Tim sat in a coffeehouse, staring out the front window. The view was of a busy sidewalk and an even busier road. He took a sip of his iced latte and continued to watch the man sitting outside.
The man seemed to have selected his location to play on the guilt of gourmet coffee consumers. The unspoken admonishment was, “You have money for a coffee, you ought to spare change for me.” People still passed by without offering coins. Ignoring his silent rebuke. He was a common figure in this area, so no one noticed him. But Tim noticed.
Tim watched the man, pretending to read an upside-down book. He had a sign that read, “Homeless, Hungry, Sober.” Were any of them true? It was a cynical time when it was vogue to be homeless as a profession. Was this man truly down on his luck? Hungry?
Sober, of course. The cliche is that the homeless are drunks. A great marketing ploy would be to declare sobriety. But where was the proof? No bottle in sight? Enough for many.
The man packed up. Tim felt rushed. The man turned the milk crate seat over and filled it with his belongings. Tim stood up, considered going, but then sat back down. He whispered to himself, “Goodbye, Dad. Maybe tomorrow.”
