Mean Streets

One of the brightest, most interesting and articulate people I've ever met was a homeless man on the beach at Santa Monica. I lived half a block from the strand then, and walked my dog along the promenade daily. I used to see him on a somewhat regular basis, and we would talk mostly about the day's news, which he would get from his little transistor radio and newspapers he fished from trash bins. I didn't know a lot about him, but I did find out that he'd been in publishing, came on hard times, and had "fallen through the cracks." He found occasional work doing telemarketing, but was usually cheated out of a lot of what he was owed. Once a month or so he'd save enough to rent a cheap motel room for a night, and enjoy the luxury of a hot shower. Eventually I moved and never saw him again, which is sad, much sadder than losing track of all the neighbors with actual roofs over their heads that we leave strewn behind us as we meander through life. Even sadder, I can't remember his name.