Too Much for Saturday Morning

Last Saturday I was away in an almost foreign city, known for its working class history. It was morning and I was waiting outside a supermarket, waiting for it to open so I could get myself some caffeine.  Something you might call a hobo called me out. Asked me to come sit with him, to chat out.

Now, there are two ways you can approach this kind of familiarity. Either you dis it with extreme prejudice or you go along with it, do the human thing.  I chose the latter and sat next to him. He started to simply pour out his life with history and opinions. People like him are pretty candid about their condition, he drinks a lot, doesn’t expect to be alive too long, had a few songs, told me I was a good listener.

When our brief meeting came to a natural end, he asked me my name, and then gave me the most heart wrenching blessings I’ve heard. After receiving it, I felt compelled to shake his hand and thank him. I left with a lump in my throat.