Looking up from the sidewalk I notice a figure approaching – unsteadily. His gaze is fixed to my movement. There is eye contact. We are tethered. As the distance between us closes, he calls in a low mumble metered by his listing-lunging gait: “Excuse me sir.” “Excuse me sir.” It’s the formal prelude to a familiar exchange between weary and distrustful parties. Following his hail, the only words discernible are help, alliance, and what sounds like methadone.
“Oh, yeah, I know where that is. It’s in Minneapolis. In Prospect Park. The 16 will take you there.” A good turn or simply enabling, either way it seems a somewhat honorable exit and I’m happy to take it.
In a surprisingly assertive yet plaintive voice he replies: “I know where it is. I need a referral from someplace ’round here.”
I pause momentarily, struck by the clarity of his response and his resemblance to Richard Lewis. “Hmm. Well, I don’t know anything about that. Sorry.”
I wait, thinking that further details or an address might be forthcoming. What follows is a long silence, accompanied by a piercing stare – a balance of disbelief and contempt. Assuming things will only get worse from here, I shrug, apologize (I don’t know why) again, and resume my course. After a few steps, mindful of my blind spot, I glance back. A Christmas tree-topped car passes between us as I stop to watch him drift, innocent of caution, across University Avenue en route to intercept the just arriving, opening-shift crew at Arby’s.
For a brief moment, the air is rich with balsam.