By Baxter Byrd
Summer 2014 Kaplan Award Winner
I am four cars from the light, waiting to turn left onto Montlake Blvd. This intersection has become a familiar one as twice a week I make my way to the University of Washington to attend classes. At this time of day it is always busy as lines of cars full of students and staff ebb and flow underneath the lights. Sometimes, when the timing is off, queues of cars stand becalmed in the intersection as the light changes red, and the faces of some look embarrassed as they realize
perpendicular traffic will soon begin to bear down on them.
The intersection is not particularly remarkable as intersections go. There is a Union 76 gas station, whose prices I watch rise and fall, but mostly rise; a bus stop, which at this time of day is populated by a handful of students, some with white squiggles of ear bud wires flowing from their ears. They stand close together, a few staring into the palms of their hands, thumbs working rapidly, sending messages to their friends via the small forest of cell antennas on top of the Montlake Market across the street.
Between the canals of roadways, small islands rise a few inches from the surface of the street, just enough to promise safety to several men who have taken up positions at the corners. There seems to be no rhythm to their appearance, no schedule, but there is constancy to their presence so that the frequent passerby can come to know them, by looks at least. To my left, across Montlake, a 30-something man in blue jeans with a black backpack at his feet holds a cardboard sign asking God to bless those who have anything to offer – anything. On a different day, a man with a wire cart and a dog sat on the island to my left. He seemed in no particular quandary, smiling easily and nodding his head as cars drifted by. His sign asked for donations, nothing specific, not for food, nor anything, just donations. His dog seemed well fed, and he offered no blessings to those who obliged.
I feel discomfort in the presence of the homeless or those who ask for for money, and I regularly lie in such circumstances. When they question me if I have any spare change, the answer is already formed in my mind, my tongue is at the roof of my mouth and the word “No” comes out before they have even finished their plea. I am overcome with skepticism and distrust, and have yet to come to terms with an act of charity being something that prolongs what appears to be suffering. Am I giving fish to people who should be taught to?
This day, the man on the island is one who once made my daughter turn away and close her eyes; the same one my wife commented how in different clothes might resemble the popular image of Christ. His body is gaunt, his brown hair is matted, as is his beard. He is shirtless and his tanned skin seems paper-thin over his countable ribs. He has long arms and his elbows look like a knot in a large hemp rope. He wears pants that resemble surgery scrubs and they hang limply from his waist showing no form of his legs.
As he walks past the cars, he holds forth his arms, elbows touching in front of his chest. His forearms are pressed together, and from them projects his dirty, cupped hands. His open mouth shows no teeth. His tongue extends, and he moves his arms in a rhythmic up and down motion, lifting his empty hands to his face as if he is scooping water from a rushing stream or receiving communion – This cup is the new testament in my blood…do this in remembrance of
me. Is this one of the angels in disguise? Is this the one who tests one’s charity so that when the moment of clarity arrives, he will stand up and say, “Yes, it was he who helped one who needed it the most by giving something at least.”
As he nears, I consider the sandwich in my bag; he needs it more than I. Perhaps I should give it to him: the old dilemma. Both hands on the wheel, I look at the man, then at the light, and again imagine the sandwich tucked away in a plastic Safeway sack inside my bag along with cut up vegetables, a can of Coke, a small bag of pretzels and a Power Bar, all pressed against the textbooks I’ll need in half an hour.
At least twice my attempts to hand out food have failed. Once by the ineffective lid of a half-eaten can of Pringles, which popped off when I tossed it to the man, causing the yellow leaflike chips to scatter across the sidewalk. I must have looked like an ass to the person behind me. Another time, I saw a man rummaging through a garbage can on 1st Avenue. I took an uneaten banana from my bag, walked over and said, “Here, you don’t have to dig in there for food.” He looked at the banana, then at me and said, “I don’t want that,” dropped the trash can lid and walked away.
I remember this as I consider that maybe this man next to me wants money instead. But I know that money deposited in hands like these will be as likely used for ill as for good. Would it be my dollar that gives him enough to buy that one last balloon? Maybe not from the regular guy (who he hasn’t seen for a while) but the new guy who cut it with too heavy a dose of rat poison so that when the plunger stops, the burn races up his arm and into his heart which begins to beat faster and faster, pushing the fire into his brain so that the last things he experiences are the swelling pressure inside his head and the small explosions of light that bulges his eyes; his teeth clamping onto his tongue so hard it is cut in two, leaving him convulsing under the tarp until he finally lays still, needle in his arm, and that is how they find him two weeks later?
Surely it is conscience we are feeling at moments like this? But the faces in the other cars that flow past these islands seem to show something else: Indifference; a stare; a pointed finger from the rear seat. Indifference; a quick glance when a man bends to pick something up; indifference; indifference; indifference. Had this been a stray dog, the concern could hardly have been held back, we must find his owner; we can’t risk him getting hit, that would be soooo sad. For these men though, the best we can seem to provide is arm’s length compassion, and I am as guilty as the next.
My window is up as the air conditioner blows soft, cool wisps of air across my face. The man is well behind me now, working the line, hands moving up and down, up and down in my side mirror. At the moment I decide to reach for the sandwich, the light ahead turns green. By the time I am able to reach into the back seat for my bag, then into the sack, grab the sandwich, then roll the window down and wait for the man so I could give it to him, the cars ahead of me would be gone, and behind me horns would honk. I would cause them to miss the light, again.
Hands on the wheel, window rolled up, eyes forward, I press the accelerator and lurch ahead. I will do it next time. I had no choice this time; I had to go. You just don’t know how embarrassing it is to hold up traffic.