Meeting with a hobo

This is an interpretation of what happened one night through memory.

Slightly inebriated I sit on the couch in our common room looking out the window while listening to Tom Waits, who my roommates are introducing to me.  I’m watching a homeless man.  He’s lying on a blanket outside of a Chinese restaurant drowning in jackets piled on top of him, when suddenly I get the urge to help this guy out.  I head for the refrigerator.  I get out the left over tortellini I made earlier that day–I have to admit that I wasn’t disappointed with parting from it because it wasn’t very good.  I approached him with a false sense of confidence from the alcohol flowing through my bloodstream, pasta in hand.

ME: How ya doin tonight mate? I brought you some food.

For whatever reason, it felt appropriate to attempt my best Irish accent. 

MAN: Eh? No I don’t want any of dat.

ME: Oh come on now. I brought it out for ya.

I hold it out in front of his face.  He has a very rough Irish accent.  He looks about sixty from the wrinkles on his face and headphones are in his ears.  The slurring of his words is no surprise based on the alcohol on his breath.

MAN: What is it then?

ME: It’s tortellini.

MAN: Oh no, I don’t eat that stuff. I eat meat.

ME: This is just as good.

MAN: No, no.

ME: You’re pretty picky for a homeless guy.

MAN: I don’t want it I tell ya.

ME: What can I do to make you take this?

MAN: Nothin, I don’t want it.

ME: I’ll heat it up for ya. Be right back.

I run back up to my apartment.  My roommates are very confused as to why I have just run off with pasta, but I don’t let them in on what I’m doing.  I put the pasta in a bowl and stick it in the microwave.  The timer beeps and I grab the bowl and head outside. 

ME: Here you go. I heated it up for ya.

MAN: All right thank ya very much.

ME: I need that bowl back.

MAN: What this? Well what have ya given it to me for?

ME: Well I need it back it’s not mine.

MAN: Well I don’t give a fuck who’s it is.

ME: Regardless, I need it back. I have this bag you can put it in.

MAN: All right, all right.

He pulls out a small sandwich container and starts to put the pasta in it.

ME: What, you don’t want my bag? Don't trust me?

MAN: I don’t fuckin’ trust no one, only me and myself.

ME: Well all right then.

I sit.

MAN: You see dis isn’t my spot. I just wanted a spot of food or some wine right in here.  But these chinks run me out de did. And you know what I’m gonna do?

ME: What?

MAN: I’m gonna go in here later and fuckin rob ‘em I am. I swear I’m gonna kill ‘em I will. I don’t fuckin’ care.

An old hobo who looked like he was too drunk to even stand, I wasn’t convinced.

ME: Well I did somethin’ for you and now I want you to do somethin’ for me.

MAN: Oh no, I don’t owe you nothin. I don’t owe nobody nothin.

ME: Just promise me somethin.

MAN: No, no. Look, I appreciate what you did for me. I really do.  I think you’re a lot like me I do. I’d help someone out if I could, but I tell ye I don’t owe nobody nothin.

ME: Just promise me you won’t disturb these people.

There is noise coming from the side of the restaurant.  It sounds like someone is taking out the trash.

MAN: Eh! Shut the fuck up!

An asian man looks at us.

ME: Can I ask ya somethin?

MAN: Yeah? What is it?

ME: How did ya get like this?

MAN: What?

ME: On the streets, how did you end up on the streets?

MAN: Well I’m from. . . 

Most of what this man said was pretty inaudible, so I didn’t catch the name.  Also, being a pretty stubborn guy, he didn’t seem to want to give many details.

ME: Well what are ya doin here for?  Why don’t ya go out into the countryside or somethin?

MAN: Now what the fuck would I do out there?  What does it got for me?

ME: Well, it’s a lot prettier than this.

MAN: No, no. What are you? Where are you from?

By this time my accent had been oscillating between an English and an Irish accent.  I told the truth, but didn’t drop the accent.  Hopefully he wouldn’t notice.

ME: I’m from America.

MAN: From what? What is dat den?  Oh right from, what do they call it? They call it somethin.

ME: Oh, the United States.

MAN: Yeah, yeah dats it. You living up here?

He points in the direction of my apartment.

ME: I’m staying over there.

I point down the street. I guess I’m hesitant to trust him too.

MAN: Well you got any spot of somethin? You got a can up there for me?

I lie.

ME: I don’t have anything right now.

He already seemed sufficiently drunk.

MAN: You don’t got nothin? No can? Come on you have to have a can.

ME: I don’t have anything, I’m all out.

MAN: Oh come on.

ME: I got to go.  Good luck to you sir.

I stand.

ME: What is your name?

MAN: My name is John.

ME: Mine too.

After I get ready for bed I look out the window and John has gone.  All that’s left is empty asphalt.  The next day I walk by the place and see a half full sandwich container of tortellini.  “That picky asshole,” I think to myself, “I’m not helping any of these lazy bums out again.”  I later scold myself for this thought.  I realize giving food or a euro isn’t what is going to help John.  Sitting and talking to him, and making him feel like a human is the best thing I could do.