Saturday, April 01, 2006



There's a homeless guy on the median. I've seen him there before. He has a sign; I can't read it. His face is grizzled, but he has a lean, fit look. He has a full head of closely cropped brown hair. He looks 40. He could get a bit part in a movie as a Gulf War vet. He looks down, always, never up or sraight ahead. I give him a dollar and say "here you go, buddy." He says "God bless" almost but not quite looking at me.

Four blocks down is another homeless person. This is one of the richest counties in the nation, by the way. Her corner isn't as good. There are fewer cars that stop there, fewer opportunities for change. She is 60. She looks weather-beaten. Her hair is long and gray. I can't pull over in time. In the rear view mirror, she sits down. I wonder how long she's been there.

It's the end of the afternoon; the sun is low in the sky. I punch on the radio and Paul Simon sings: "Hello Darkness, my old friend..."

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