Homeless

I don’t dare make eye contact.

He has to see that I have a passenger. That’s my get-out-of-jail-free card, "I’m not really in charge right now, sorry," even though I know that isn’t true. The car is mine. The choice is mine. I just don’t want it to be.

He’s always on this exact corner. Same spot. Same hoodie, red puffer vest, and untied oversized boots. I think he knows me. I think he knows I know him too.

Society tells me he’s an addict, that giving money only feeds the addiction. I’ve heard that food gets traded. Coupons too. There’s help. Shelters. Programs. I rehearse all of it like a legal defense, something I can present to myself so I don’t have to feel what I feel.

He tears at the depths of my soul. A sickness that cramps deep in my gut. I feel his eyes. He knows me. I’m both saddened and terrified.

There are a few things I truly fear: hell, divorce, prison. Deep water where I can’t see the bottom, even if I know there’s nothing down there waiting for me. And I fear homelessness. Addiction. Failure.

He could be me.

In fact, that could easily be me if I lost control of the things I keep barely under control. If I gave in to my quieter demons, the respectable ones, the invisible ones. It’s easy to judge from inside a warm car with a destination on the screen, a job to do, a place to go. It’s easy to say that won’t be me.

Every day I pass him. With a passenger or without one. And every day I feel the same tightening in my chest from years of treading water, fighting to keep my head above it and not go under.

I don’t give him anything. I keep my eyes forward. I urge myself to keep going. Don’t stop! Don’t let the hidden monsters pull you down!

Then the shame of a green light.

Until tomorrow.