Being Homeless is like being invisible
I stop in at the Dunkin Donuts shop during the week when I take a break from my work. I like it there because it is air conditioned. I use this for my down time and bring a book with me to read while I sip my coffee. Nobody bothers me.
The last few months, every time I've gone to Dunkin Donuts I've seen an elderly man sitting in a corner. He shouts to the kids behind the counter. "Turn off that junk music and put on some Polka." He says the same thing everytime he's there.
The young people behind the counter giggle and ignore the man. He sits with his cold drink, sloshing around the ice cubes.As people step up to the counter, he shouts at them. "Nice kids you got there," he tells one woman. She nods in thanks, but doesn't talk to him.
"Hey kid, where'd you get those baggy pants?" he shouts at another who glares back at him.
After seeing him a few times, I decided to talk to the man. He seemed harmless and I thought he could use a little conversation. "I like Polka music," I said. "I used to dance to it in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, where I grew up. The neighborhood is mostly Polish."
He smiled at me. "Yeah, I like that Bobby Vinton."
I nod in agreement. "I don't hear much about him any more."
The conversation continues. We talk about a local polka group. They play at community activities, fairs, and even have bus trips to their out of town shows. "I've taken my father to hear the band and we enjoyed the lively music."
The old man seems happy to have someone to talk to. He rambles on about times he and his wife used to Polka, the concerts he's attended.
After awhile I have to leave. I ponder if I should offer to pay for refill for him. Would he be insulted? I decide to take my chances. "May I buy you a refill?" Broad smile now.
"Yes, thank you. I'm drinking ice coffee, decaf, no milk." I buy him a cup and hand it to him along with a donut. "You're a nice kid," he says, though I am way beyond being a kid. "I guess I'll see you again," I say as I'm ready to leave. "You live around here?"
He shakes his head sadly. "At the shelter," he says. "Don't have no place else to go."
I immediately felt sadness engulf my heart. This man had told me about his family, his children, his years working in a factory. What was he doing homeless?
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