“What if the neck feels different?”
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“We’ll see when we get there.”
We were laughing when we turned the corner.
That’s when we saw the man.
He was sitting against the brick wall about 30 feet from the music store entrance.
There was a faded backpack beside him and a cardboard sign propped against one knee.
His dog, an old brown mutt with white around the muzzle, was curled against his leg.
The sign said: “Anything helps. God bless.”
I noticed him, but I probably would have walked past.
I’m not proud of that.
Sometimes, when you live in a city long enough, you learn how not to look.
Ethan noticed him too.
We had almost passed when the man called out.
“Hey, kid!”
Ethan stopped.
The man pointed toward the sidewalk.
“You dropped something.”
Three folded bills were lying on the ground.
He looked down, then checked his jacket pocket.
His envelope had opened slightly. “Oh,” he said.
The man leaned forward. “You better check the rest.”
Ethan crouched and picked up the bills.
I glanced at the man.
He could easily have said nothing.
Ethan seemed to realize that too. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Ethan hesitated. Then instead of walking away, he went closer.
“What’s your dog’s name?”
The man looked surprised. “Buddy.”
Ethan crouched several feet away.
“Can I pet him?”
“If he lets you.”
Buddy lifted his head. Ethan held out his hand.
The dog sniffed him, then shuffled forward.
That was how a 30-second interaction became 20 minutes.
The man’s name was Malcolm.
He told Ethan that Buddy had been with him for nine years.
Ethan asked where they slept.
Malcolm said wherever he could.
Sometimes a shelter. Sometimes outside.
Sometimes a motel if he managed to save enough.
I stood nearby, listening.
Ethan asked questions adults usually avoid.
“How did you become homeless?”
I almost interrupted him.
Malcolm smiled. “It’s okay.”
