The bearded, homeless man yanked down on his ill-fitting sweater. It was a hot August afternoon on Tremont Street near the Boston Commons. He shivered briefly.
“Buddy. Can you spare some change?” he called out to a pedestrian.
“I don’t think so. Sorry.”
The respondent, a well dressed and groomed man proceeded to walk by, but then paused. He looked at the man with the cup. A brief flicker of recognition crossed his face.
He said to the beggar, “Do you mind if I talk to you for a moment?”
“You’re not a preacher, are you? ‘Cause if you are, I’m not interested in what you’re selling.”
“No, no I’m not a preacher,” he chuckled. “I’m a lawyer, actually. I work at a firm on Beacon Street.”
“I used to be one,” replied the homeless man.
“A lawyer? Really? What’s your name?”
“Bill.”
“Nice to meet you, Bill,” replied the lawyer. He seemed to warm up to the dirty, unshaven fellow upon hearing of his former occupation. “How is it that you ended up out on the streets?”
“Oh, you know. One thing led to another. The wife and I split up about 15 years ago. I began spending more time at the bar than at home. And somewhere along the way I just stopped caring about it.”
“It?”
“You know,” Bill replied, bitterly. “‘It.’ Life. Everything. The practice, the car, the boat, the time-share, the toys, the condo. My marriage. All that crap.”
The man was silent for a moment. “My name is William. Where do you sleep? Around here?”
“Yeah. I got a bench staked out over in the Commons. A couple of us: Joe, Petey, Howard, and Susie--we stick together. It’s a sort of communal living arrangement. We look out for one another. The Commons isn’t safe like it used to be.”
Bill continued. “Last year, some young punks ganged up on Howard after he’d gone on a bender. They tried to set his clothes on fire. Luckily, a cop happened to be nearby or ole’ Howard would have ended up a French fry. Imagine that? Kids setting fire to a harmless old drunken bum.”
“That’s pretty barbaric behavior,” said William.
An MBTA bus roared by. The conversation paused for a moment.
How do you eat?”
“There are a couple of food pantries nearby. And Joe and Petey know one of the chefs in a restaurant over on Arlington. On Thursdays we get great leftovers after midnight.”
A woman passed by, dropping a quarter in Bill’s cup. She gave Bill an odd look as she continued by.
“What do you do for money—besides panhandling?” asked William.
“I don’t really need it. Not a lot of it, anyway. Two years ago I tried selling Spare Change out near the Park Street station. That’s hard work, man! You think lawyering is hard. Try hawking newspapers all day long. People spitting at you, cussing you out, calling you all sorts of names. No sir, the money just wasn’t worth it.”
Bill continued, “Last year I worked briefly at a restaurant doing kitchen clean up. They knew ‘who and what’ I was. But they was--” Bill corrected his grammar. “They were willing to take a chance on me. I think it might have worked out, except that I didn’t have a phone or permanent address. One of the managers took a disliking to me. He got on my case when I showed up late a couple of times. I was late because I sat up with Susie all night long when she caught pneumonia. Winters living outside can be a bitch, you know. Anyway, I told him to stick it.”
“What about family? Your ‘ex’?”
“I lost track of the old lady and my little boy. She split and headed west with Bobby. He was four at the time. I suspect Bobby is in college now. Perhaps he’s even thinking about a career in law, too. God help him if he does.”
Bill sighed.
“I’m sure Helen told him I was dead.”
“Does it ever bother you? I mean--falling from the upper class, a respected pillar of the community--all the way to the bottom?
“I didn’t fall. I dropped out. And this isn’t the bottom. It’s not even close! I’ve got my friends. And my time is my own. Nobody’s putting demands on me, I don’t have to contend with appointments, billable hours, upset clients and the bullshit that goes along with wearing a suit and tie.”
He continued. “I see it all out here. I see the best of humanity, and the worst of humanity. Occasionally, some small act of kindness shown towards my friends and me restores my faith in my fellow man ever so briefly. I lost that faith a long time ago, dealing with the petty, backstabbing, litigious segment of the population that you call the ‘upper class.’”
Bill paused to take in another quarter. He nodded his thanks, and continued answering the lawyer.
“You talk about respect. I’ve got respect. My friends think the world of me. They depend on me. And I depend on them. And you know what? I love them. I wouldn’t trade them for all of the stuck up ‘blue blood’ in Wellesley Hills. Hey, you know—you ought’a drop out of the rat race.”
Bill paused for a moment, glaring back at two teenagers who slowed to snicker at him. They quickly moved away. “Mister, what did you say your name was again?”
A woman who had been standing nearby approached at that moment. She reached into her purse, pulled out a crisp dollar bill and stuffed it in his cup. Bill nodded in appreciation.
As the woman departed, she shook her head sadly, thinking of the homeless man in the Red Sox sweatshirt, conducting a very civil conversation with an imaginary person whose name he had apparently forgotten.
