by Sean Reynolds
Mark could barely make out the features of the figure at the end of the off ramp, until he came to a stop behind the long line of cars and got a good look at him. As he inched forward, he watched the stout, thirty-something man in short pants and tennis shoes holding on to a little sign, standing nearly motionless in the morning fog.
Rolling slowly past, he turned the man over in is head. He’s like one of those reality TV shows, he thought. He’s homeless, no doubt, drug problems or just plain lazy, no way to tell, really. The man wore tinted glasses and a visor with curly red hair pouring out from the sides, but neatly cut at the collar. He smiled wide and turned to look as Mark drove past, as if he sensed the attention. Mark looked only at the sign, avoiding the man’s stare. It had one word written on it in large black letters, “Help.”
He could be more expressive, for Christ’s sake. Something to get their attention, he thought, like will work for food, that’s a standard. Homeless, God Bless, at least that appeals to Christians. Who responds to just help?
All that first week the man was there with his little sign. Mark could see it up ahead every morning from the corner of his window, like an icon: a request. It bothered him, an imposition of sorts. People were always crying out for attention, he thought. In the beginning, he easily ignored the man, never winding up at the intersection directly in front of him at the red light, until, inevitably, it happened. The man was standing only a few feet from him. Behind the rolled-up car window he looked like a picture, just a face really, but, all the same, the image burned on the side of Mark’s head until, mercifully, the light changed. But, driving on through, the sign wrote its letters across his mind… HELP.
He doesn’t look homeless, he thought. His clothes are clean enough. He’s well fed. That’s for sure. What’s his story? Mark didn’t really want to know. He just wanted to get to work. After all, he was raising a family. He had a mortgage and a car payment. So much to take care of, life on the off ramp must be easier, he figured, no worries, just hold up a sign.
Days passed. He never gave the man a dollar, or even a smile. After all, he wasn’t his friend, no connection what-so-ever. In fact, a week went by until Mark actually saw someone give the man money: A young woman rolled down her window and held out a single bill, and then, remarkably, the car behind her followed suit and then the car behind that. Mark drove by, eyes forward, but now feeling a little guilty. I guess I could participate, he thought, for the grace of God, and all that, I suppose. After all, the people smiled when they offered up their change. It probably made them feel better about themselves, he pondered, a connection of sorts.
The next day Mark had his dollar ready on the seat next to him as he pulled up.
“God bless you,” was all the man said, as he handed him the bill, but it was enough to make Mark feel proud. He thought about it the rest of the day. When he mentioned it to his coworkers, they had mixed opinions. “I can’t stand that,” someone said. “Is that all they have to do all day? Why are they wasting their time like that?”
Nevertheless, Mark was hooked. From then on, every chance he had, he gave the man a dollar and got his, “God bless you.” It quickly became a routine and he felt comfortable, even pleased, by the simple relationship. Then, one day, at a fresh red light, the man commented on a snapshot of Mark’s wife and kids sitting in plain view on the dashboard.
“Nice family,” he remarked. “They’re lucky to have you.”
The light turned green, and, driving on, Mark felt a new rush of pride. Yes, they are lucky, he thought. I guess I am lucky.
In the weeks that followed, the two men widened their relationship with short comments of gratitude and concern. The man learned of Mark’s job as a computer programmer. Mark shouted over the freeway din short comments, like how he had to keep going to put his kid through school, and how his wife liked to take vacations. For weeks, the man was there every day. Sometimes, they could chat for a minute or so, and at other times he would just smile. In a strange way, Mark felt they were becoming close friends, although, really, he knew very little about him. He gave his dollar, and the man asked nothing more from him. Again, Mark enjoyed the ritual, and almost relied on the gratitude. It was simple. A good connection, he thought, a worthwhile relationship, but the man was a stranger really. So, one day he hastily asked, “What line of work are you in?”
“Architect,” the man said, raising his voice over the wind and traffic, before running to grab another bill from the car behind.
An architect, Mark thought. He mustn’t be a very good one, probably a drunk or druggie, probably his wife left him, something like that. It’s better to have a steady job. Computers, we’ll always have those.
The next surprise came when the man pulled a photo from his shirt pocket, obviously waiting for Mark. “This is my family,” he said.
They were lovely.
“We were on vacation in Hawaii,” was all he could add, as Mark pulled away, but the photo upset him. The picture was disturbingly serene: a beautiful wife and daughter. Could he be lying, Mark wondered? The man was in the photo. They were at a restaurant on the beach. It looked recent. This really had him thinking, as his compassion evaporated with each mile, the feelings of pride were replaced with doubt and betrayal. We’re friends, he thought. He wants my help. His little sign says as much. Now he tells me he has a career and a family. What about me? Where’s my compassion, where’s my support?
That weekend he couldn’t stop thinking about it. It had been nearly three months, and who knows how many dollars? The more he thought about the brief comments he had made waiting for the light to change, the more he realized it had been just a one-sided exchange. He had told the man about his promotion and how his daughter was accepted at USC. He told him how he wanted to change careers, and even joked that maybe he would join him on the off ramp if things didn’t work out. He told him how he had high blood pressure and how his youngest had ADD. He said these things, in short sentences and little comments over the weekday commute. He showed the man pictures, holding them up briefly; one of his boat, another of his trip to Lake Havasu, and so on. They were like friends, Mark thought, but now he just felt exposed and confused. He thought about what he would tell the man. He would pull over and park, get out and confront him. Maybe even ask for his money back, or at least an explanation of who he really is.
Monday morning the cars backed up on the long off ramp as usual. Mark’s heart pounded as he searched for the tiny figure on the side of the road. He looked for a spot to park, while arranging the words in his mind, but the closer he got, the more he realized something was different. The man was gone, but Mark parked anyway and ran across the busy intersection to the corner where the man had stood day after day in the cold wind.
It was a new perspective outside of the safety and solitude of his car and he felt alone and disoriented. The cars raced by, oblivious to him, bumper-to-bumper, speeding to catch the light.
Feeling empty and alone, he searched the desolate overpass for his friend, finding only the abandoned sign lying facedown in the dirt. When he turned it over the word “Help” leapt out at him. His stomach growled in the cold morning wind, and his knees buckled slightly when he picked it up. The freeway buzzed in his ears as he held the sign and starred out at the long line of commuters waiting impatiently on the off ramp. Then, he felt a friendless shiver wash over him as he watched the car window descend in front of him exposing an outstretched hand holding a wrinkled dollar bill.
“Here you go. Hey, Buddy. Over here, look.” The man in the late model car waved the dollar at him to get his attention. “Don’t you want it?” he yelled, before driving on. Mark dropped the sign and hurried back, reaching his car out of breath and confused. We were friends, he thought. We were friends.
Originally published in Rind Literary Magazine — Issue 1 (August 2012).
Vox Inaudica 