City Life

I’m staying at a friend's apartment here in Chicago, which is great because the building has an in-house pay laundry. Friday I got up at six thirty in the morning, walked the dogs, and then took a bunch of dirty clothes down to the laundry room. To get there you have to go outside and walk around to the side of the building. As I rounded the corner I almost tripped over a man sleeping on the sidewalk. Now this isn’t a bad neighborhood, nor is it the best. The mayor of Chicago lives just four blocks away, so I was a bit surprised at a homeless guy snoozing out there on the concrete. He wasn’t drunk, just sleeping. On my way back up to the apartment, I stopped and asked him why he chose the hard sidewalk over the grass. He opened his mouth to talk, and with a toothless grin told me, “The grass is too wet. I know it’s softer, but it’s just too wet.”

I went back upstairs, but I couldn’t help thinking about that guy. I know it looks awful to have bums sleeping next to your building, but for some reason I felt bad for him. So after fifteen minutes I decided I’d bring him breakfast. I cooked up a hotdog, put it on a bun with some mustard, and took it on down. When I got out there the building janitor was in front puttering around, and other neighbors were walking by. My bum was still sleeping on the sidewalk, but I realized I couldn’t feed him. Not one of those folks out there would have been happy with my feeding homeless people. After all, it’s just like the cats I have in my back yard. Feed them once and they never leave. I totally chickened out, so I went into the laundry room and ate the hotdog myself. I’m surprised I didn’t choke on it.