Triage

 This morning we passed by the homeless waiting for the diner to open as we walked our dogs, and ran into an old friend. He both lives and has a business in the neighborhood, and since the dispersal of tent city the homeless have taken to occasionally shitting on the back door of his business.

Why do we even feed them, he asked me, if it's only going to turn into shit on my doorstep twelve hours later?

I didn't really have an answer for him. Why do we feed them, I mean beyond just simple human compassion for the worst off among us? It's not solving anything. On the other hand, I've come to believe this problem is not going to be made better by spending less on it.

One thing I do know, at the meetings about the homeless, someone new often stands up to offer a solution that the others have heard before. Bring your perspective to the meeting, I said. Someone there will know why.

Later, my coworkers and I volunteered at the diner. I saw several of the usual faces, including Robin, who came in only long enough to grab two to-go plates and leave, the Chaplain, and Magoo, who apparently is out of jail. 

Magoo habitually wears a guarded, angry expression. Today he was playing games with the meal system, trying to circumvent dropping his ticket in the bucket. I'm not sure what is in it for him. An easy victory, maybe. Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven. I don't know.

Another guy who we have seen since he first hit the streets came in. He's always been affable, although his time on the streets appears to have cost him some teeth.

I was busy mopping the floor. No moss grows under your feet, he said. Now your lawn, that's another story. 

We've tried growing wildflowers in front of our house, which I've learned isn't as easy or maintenance-free as I thought it would be. It's been dry this year, and the prettiest stuff has withered in favor of the hardier and less showy. 

In short, our yard looks like shit, and he was letting me know. I need to do something about it, I told him. He was right.

Another guy came in who we've seen on the streets for a few years now. Looks like he was maybe an oilfield worker in a previous life. Tall, rangy white guy with a country look. Doesn't talk much. Tried to sell us oranges once, and once tailed my wife while she was out walking our dog, scaring her. Mostly when I see him now he's high out of his mind on something.

I also saw Zachary. I had been riding to work two mornings before, and blonde young man had waved at me.

"Do you have a bicycle you could sell me?" 

We had bike we wanted to get rid of, and I gave it to him.

"I haven't seen you here before," he said when I saw him in the diner. I come once a year, I told him.

We walked the dogs again in the evening, and saw a black guy coming one way down the street toward us, discussing something loudly and angrily with himself. I tend to think of this as a protective display, and so try to respect the effect they're going for by not engaging. 

Coming the other way was Angel, barefoot in a powder blue hospital gown. 

Do you have any food, she asked, thrusting her discharge papers at us, bearing a short list of powerful medications she was supposed to be on.

"Are you pregnant again?" my wife asked. No. Maybe. Can't be sure.

As we walked away, I saw a white guy folded over on himself, sitting on the curb. 

"Hey buddy. Are you okay?" 

He unfolded, still out of it. It was the white guy.

It was getting dark, the mosquitoes were coming out, we kept walking.