The People You See Every Day

Each time I climb from the Chicago Metra trains up to the Madison Street entrance heading toward work, I look for William who sits in a webbed chair with a container at his feet collecting cash. Sometimes he sports a crucifix, the size that hung over chalkboards at St. Philomena's just under the clock, like a bolo around his neck and props a hand-made poster with the head of Jesus from the painting of him in the Garden of Gethsemane reminding commuters that he loves them.

The last time I saw William, street construction forced him to move a block west of his usual spot. The construction rerouted all commuters around a corner and William, I noticed, placed his chair and belongings in the middle of tight space between a wall from the train station and the street. When it was cold, like it was the last time I saw him, I could see he wore a turtle neck, a wool sweater, two scarves, a fake fur ear flap hat,  a hood, gloves, boots and ski pants. He wrapped his shoulders with a purple fleece blanket with yellow chicks and tied fringe. He covered his legs with a red plaid blanket that looked like it was used as a lap robe in a Model T. The last time I saw him, William's legs stretched long and close to the icy waves that traffic rolled near his feet and commuters splashed as they leaped to and from the curb to miss the ankle deep slush.

Six years ago, I started commuting downtown by train. For a couple weeks, I’d see him, but I ignored him. I pretended he wasn't there; I’d think about him though. Sometimes I was charitable and considered that he looked old and didn't have money... after all we were in an economic depression that trickled up. Sometimes, especially in summer, I felt resentful of slogging inside to my desk for the entire nice day.  As time passed, I couldn't ignore him. I'd see him every single morning and began to smile or say hello when passed him. After seeing him every day, it felt rude not to know his name, so I asked him and he told me, then surprised me by asking mine. Then, when I climbed from the trains I’d say, “Hi William”, as I walked by and from behind me I'd hear, "Have a Blessed Day, Mary."  

He left his post exactly at six. Sometimes, if catching the 5:58, I’d see him bending over pulling his things together to head to wherever he called home. I knew he must have some place, a place to store the supplies of his trade, at least, because the items rotated in an out of use… baskets, buckets, a milk case, an umbrella in the rain, or the crucifix and the poster with Jesus’ head. 

“Mary”, William waved me over one day. “I’m eighty three. I need eighteen dollars to cover my rent, can you spare it?” I knew better than to pull out my wallet in public or on demand. “Not now, William, I’ll see what I can do at the end of the day or tomorrow morning.” This became a regular, every couple months connection,. Sometimes the amount remained the same, but the cause changed to food or meds. Sometimes the amount changed by a dollar or two. His age always changed… eighty  three, eighty six, ninety two, I figured, more likely he didn’t know, rather than forgetfulness. I tucked a twenty in my pocket and hand it to him the next time I’d see him. I accept his blessings and thanks gladly, but, his smile, his gentle grand fatherly tap on my arm that accompanied it jolted me each time. He needed the money. He paid rent, he went to a doctor, he took meds and he was eighty something, ninety something... it didn't matter. The twenty bucks went into a pocket rather than the bucket or basket lined with coins and singles and i didn't feel duped into giving it to him. 

That was... that is the issue for me... seeing all the street people and not knowing whether they are playing me. There is a guy by our building who is in a wheel chair with a oxygen tank hooked on the back. It's never attached to him. From our seventh floor view, we've seen him roll over to a walled area in the garden below and count his money. Maybe he has a daily quota, maybe he is tucking it away for safety, I find myself skeptical of his need and wish I could be less judgmental about his entrepreneurism. Once, leaving work in the middle of the day, I saw William tell off, scare off another street person from pan-handling in his area by the train station. I realized there are prime locations and I wondered, since this is Chicago, who makes money on them. Is there a cop that allows them, or a street person union? For a year or two there was a man who smashed himself up against the wall that marks the end of the Metra property by the bridge, clearly the marked end of William's post. He held a cardboard sign that only got rattier, never replaced. saying he was a vet and needed food. He didn't have a chair or a bucket or an umbrella. He wore a hooded sweatshirt usually with the hood up and like his sign, continued to deteriorate as time went on, until he wasn't there any more. William shared his space with a woman who sold StreetWise, the newspaper that homeless can sell and keep the proceeds. She stood like a statue, hands outstretched offering the papers. I rarely head her voice or saw anyone buy a paper from her. She disappeared too.

The sound of change clanging caught my attention at the spot in front of the station where I used to see William. A young man with the same deep mahogany skin as William’s stood in olive shorts and a bright red t-shirt shakes a Styrofoam Dunkin Donuts cup. The foot traffic clustered waiting for the traffic light to allow us to cross and I noticed the man with the cup now stood next to me also waiting for traffic to clear. “Do you know William?” I asked him. “The man who often sat right where you were standing?”

He knew exactly. “William died. He was ninety three. His heart gave out. He got pneumonia. He didn’t recover from the winter. He died.” 

I thanked him and he blessed me. 

I can't stop thinking about William and about the other street people. I wonder why I don't invite one home, volunteer somewhere, budget an amount each month.... something. It's easier to walk by. It's more "fun" to share a sandwich leaving of a restaurant. 




Distance allows distance.