Walking with a homeless man

On an overcast morning of May 2d, I was walking through the city center of my home town Aachen in Germany. The gray sky didn't bother me because trees were finally putting on their green spring dress, and the air smelled of flowers. I was on my way to catch a bus, walking quickly, and easily outpaced a man whose stumbling gait had already caught my eye. 

While passing him by, I cast a glance towards him, and saw that his head was hanging so low, his chin touched his chest. He was holding a bottle of beer in his left hand. The cap was on, but the bottle was already missing a third of its content. He looked like he could fall over any minute, and hurt himself. 

I stopped a couple of yards ahead of him, wanting to offer him my help to a nearby bench, but then, I hesitated. Everyone knows the kind of thoughts that raced through my head then: Nah, he's okay... I don't want to meddle/offend/get rejected/involved with a stranger who's probably drunk... I'm going to miss my bus... And listening to them, on I went. For three or four steps. Then I stopped dead in my tracks, told myself: Damn it! Your heart is telling you go, so go. 

I turned on my heels and went to stand next to him, gently cupping my hand beneath his elbow to let him know I was there – his head hung so low, he probably could only see my shoes, if he was paying any attention at all. 

„Hi“, I said, „can I help you? Maybe to one of the benches in the park?“ We were just passing it by, but as the lawn had been newly sown, crossing to the nearest bench, barely 15ft away wasn't an option. And I didn't know if that's where he wanted to go, it was just my idea, after all. He barely lifted his head, and mumbled: 

„Why? 'cause you think I'm going to fall over?“ His voice didn't sound aggressive, just a bit mocking. 

„Yes“, I replied, feeling a strange little twinge in the chest, „I saw the way you walk and I was worried you'd fall and hurt yourself.“ 

There was a bit of silence during which I slowly walked alongside of him, still cupping his elbow, providing gentle support but ready to pull back at any moment should he show signs of not wanting my help.

“Well dang!” he finally replied, mildly surprised, allowing my touch. 

We then got chatting a bit, with frequent pauses in the conversation whenever he concentrated on walking (or maybe, thinking): About the park, and that obviously people had already stepped onto the freshly sown lawn. He asked what I had been doing in town, and where I was going. I forgot about my bus. Finally, we reached a bench on one of the central town squares. It had taken us about 5 to 10 minutes to walk the distance, maybe 40yds. There, he sat, and I sat down by his side, not sure why, as I'd forgotten any idea of helping him. Or of catching my bus, of having to prepare a study group meeting for that evening. 

My eyes were drawn to his deeply chapped hands. They were clean, but the splits were black - they must be pretty deep. I touched one hand, hesitatingly taking it in mine, looking at his nails (cut short and clean but with terrible cuticles, which, he suddenly said, had never been really good, even earlier in life), turning it around, looking at the places where obviously the splits had become infected. 

“Does that hurt?” I wanted to know, not really expecting an answer. 

“Not anymore”, he said, raising his head and looking straight at me, with slightly veiled, blue eyes: “Only in the beginning, when it was cold...” 

Suddenly, he turned over the hand that I was holding. Now, he was the one holding my hand, and used his other one to explore my skin, even pushing up my sleeve to touch my forearm. For a split-instant, I was scared, but then I realized he was just curious, and indeed: “Mine's like sandpaper,” he grumbled, releasing my arm. We looked at each other, and though my heart hurt, I stretched out both my hands towards him and said: “Well then, one peeling, please!” I think he didn't even smile. I was so sad and happy at the same time, my heart full of love and pain and compassion, I felt like crying, but all I could think of was that little joke.

We sat there for a couple more minutes, maybe 15, talking: About money, about what he wanted out of life (“I'm not going to accomplish anything great anymore, not like you - Right - I just want to be able to do the things I set out for myself in the morning, go through with them so I have a sense of achievement, and be able to do the things I enjoy doing.” Geez, that's exactly what I'm struggling to do, I thought).

Sometimes, I had to go into a huddle with him, to understand what he was saying when his head was hanging down again. You should have seen the looks some well-dressed passers-by gave me, a mixture between wonder and disgust, like I was doing something wrong.

After a while, I bade him goodbye. It was hard, walking away, thinking I really hadn't done anything tangible at all to help him. Once I had rounded the corner, I finally let the tears flow. But it wasn't all sadness. I was grateful that I'd been able to let myself be so deeply touched by this meeting. I was grateful that the man had answered some of my long held questions about how homeless people live. And I was grateful for the love I'd felt for him.