THE BEER MAN

H

e was dirty. Well, that is what I gathered from just a quick glance and a small observation. I would have more time to see and observe though; I had to stand within a close distance to him in order to deposit my cans. I did so. I deposited them, but kept a close eye on my dirty stranger friend.

At this closer look I had, he was depositing a very substantial amount of beer cans. But not only was he depositing them, he was drinking them too. With one hand putting the cans into the machine, and the other one occupied by a full can of beer that barely made it to his mouth. He reeked of alcohol. I would say he had been standing there all night, drinking his beer then depositing the can immediately. He looked homeless. I am pretty sure he was. His hair was white and gray with a couple stray brown hairs. I suspect that was his normal hair color. It was a rat’s nest that should have had a big, bright, lit up sign that said “NO VANCANCY.” I was sure I saw something peek its head out. I was also sure that something would jump onto me from him. Who knows what. Standing next to him, I felt I would get dirty just being in his presence. His pants were dirty- more like filthy- (it look like they were rubbed in dirt and mud) and they had some slight holes in them, but that was the better half of him. His white muscle shirt looked as though it were disintegrating right there on his body.

In the midst of my observation, he confronted me. He opened his mouth, and I wanted to shove a tooth brush in there. Not that there were too many teeth anyway, but what he had left, looked like they were going to fall out right then and there. In a very quiet, drunk sounding voice he asked me, “Can I have the monies from your cans?”

Normally I am not so rude or ignorant towards the homeless people. I like to help them out when I get a chance or two. I won’t hand them a hundred dollars let alone a penny, but I will buy them some food. Everyone knows what a homeless person can do with money in their hands, and the last thing this guy needed was some more beer or alcohol of any sort.

I was there depositing my cans at Wal-Mart to get my 10 month old daughter jeans. She grew out of all the rest, and would have to go naked if I didn’t get her any then. “I am sorry sir…” I replied. “But my daughter here needs pants, and this money has to go towards it.”

He huffed at me and turned away, mumbling under his breath. I wasn’t sure what he said, but I know that he thought I was lying, especially since she was with me, and had some pants on. However, I didn’t find the need to tell him that those didn’t fit her well.

Suddenly, he began fiddling with his jeans. I looked over just as he was about to pull them off. Just in time to get my shirt soaked with that beer he had in his hand. He could barely stand before he started this other task.

Lovely, I was now covered in beer. He however, just stood there and looked at me. He didn’t even say sorry. Almost like that was the purgative for drinks. You know? Like some officers think they don’t have to obey the law because they are the authority of the law, so he thinks that since he is drunk, he doesn’t need to say sorry. “Here, take my pants.” He began taking them off again.

“NO! No, I don’t want your pants. I don’t need your pants. Keep them, please, keep them.” I was more afraid of what I would see.

“I don’t need them. I need money. I’ll gives you my pants; you gives me your deposited cans monies.” He was sure that I was going to do this. WRONG!

His voice cracked. Like the cracking that happens after 10 years of smoking cigarettes. I suspected that he hadn’t had too much education, because his grammar and speaking abilities were incorrect and child-like.

I wasn’t giving him anything, and the only thing he was going to give me was the beer on my shirt; which I wasn’t too thankful for.

“I don’t need my pants. You take them. You give me your monies.” He was very persistent. But I wasn’t budging. Not toward his offer anyway. I was however- trying to make a clear break towards the door.

But I wanted to know more about this man, I wanted to know where he was from, what he was doing, and what kind of life he has had. I asked him where he was from. He starred at me. His eyes started to tear up and said, “Nowhere. I am from nowhere, or everywhere. Depends how you look at it. I am homeless, so the world is my living room.”

The way he spoke, through the beer breath and the tobacco smell, was sad. As soon as I asked one question, he seemed to break up. I felt as though I could see into his soul, like he needed a friend, or just someone to listen to him.

“I never wanted it to turn out like this. But then again, I had no choice. For as long as I can remember, I have lived on the streets, slept under the trees, and ate a half eaten burger from dumpsters. These monies I am getting from these cans, I want to use to just get a bite to eat. I hope to have enough for the Old Country Buffet… at least I can fill up there and not worry about whose mouth it was in first. I guess it all began with my parents. I don’t really remember them either. We moved to the street, and got separated somehows. I bet they are dead by now.” He had a genuine look on his face, and I couldn’t help but get teary-eyed myself. I wish I hadn’t made snap judgments about him.

I wanted to ask the most powerful question of all… “WHY?” but I was afraid to stir more emotions than I already have. I mustered up some courage and finally asked, “Why did your family have to move to the streets?”

He looked at me like I held a loaded gun to his head when I asked him that. I was really a youngster when we moved out into the world. I was only about five years old. Daddy used to say that, ‘The world is your oyster son.’ I never really thought about it until now, but I he was wrong. I am the oyster and the world is my shell. I live in the world… I don’t live in a home.”

I didn’t want to ask what his hobbies were, but then again I did want to know the answer. So, I phrased it differently, “What do you do all day?”

He had a blank look on his face and was silent for about two minutes. He finally replied, “I do anything. I watch traffic, watch birds, and watch people walking down the street. I daydream a lot. I watch as people go about their daily lives, wishing that maybe sometime I will be able to have some sense of ‘normal.’ But I know that there is no way I will ever be normal, I may just die somewhere under a tree.”

The night was getting later and later as him and I spoke, and finally he ran out of cans. He was only about four dollars away from a good meal there, so I reached into my pocket, gave him a couple wrinkled bills, and some change. His eyes were big and brown, filled with blue tears as he said, “Thanks you. Thanks you so much.” Then we went our separate ways.