That Man

I couldn’t help but let my eyes gaze upon him every few seconds as I stood in line to order my coffee.  I wanted to look at him.  I didn’t want to turn away from him like others were doing.  I wanted to have conversation with him.  He was mesmerizing to me and his presence stirred something deep down in my soul with every move he made.  I wanted to drink in every detail of him with my eyes even though I was well aware that my stare might be interpreted as impolite.  I wanted to reach for my camera and snap a quick photograph or two, however, I couldn’t bring myself to invade his privacy like that.

He deserved respect; he didn’t deserve exploitation.  So, my hand never made into the pocket of my bag where my camera rested.

 His hair, blonde and wispy, was strewn atop his head revealing vast amounts of grime he’d surely picked up from street sleeping.  Even in its unkempt, unwashed state with large matted sections, I could tell that he had been handsome and stylish some years ago. 

 His hands were weathered and showed signs of both aging and harsh outdoor living conditions.  The nail beds were encased with dirt and the skin was cracked in several places along his fingers.  He had strong looking hands that I could tell had been purposeful some years ago.

He rested seemingly comfortable and upright in his wheel chair while he watched the hustle and bustle of others within the coffee shop.  His eyes were bright and alert and he seemed ready for conversation, ready to be acknowledged in any way.  He rolled up to the counter and engaged the barista with a wide, infectious smile as he asked for his “regular”.  She knew him and greeted him warmly by name.  Even though I couldn’t hear him speak to her, I heard her say, “Way to go!” back to him as she handed him a cup of hot, steaming tea. 

 I smiled to myself at the thought of him having friends.  People who would not just acknowledge him but dare to invest in him.  Friends who cared for him now just like friends who cared for him from some years ago.

 Then, he wheeled himself towards the door that led outside and I noticed the duffel bag positioned at the rear of his wheelchair.  His belongings fit into one small duffel bag.  I could tell that his bag had been one of many bags he had some years ago.

 I wondered what was in his bag.  I pondered the contents for a long time after he left the coffee shop.  What was in his bag?  Did he have one tattered, worn photograph in there that he gingerly took out each night to reminisce by? Or was there some other memento in the bag that represented his life from some years ago. 

Who was this man some years ago before circumstances led him to live such a wandering and harsh nomadic life?  And, why… am I so moved to want to follow him?