The overlooked man on the bench

WESTLAKE PARK, Sunday, Jan 15

The man on the bench seemed oblivous to the speakers and the crowd at the rally for health care. But then most were oblivious to him, as well.  Some were aware of him enough to stand at the far end of his bench as they tried for a better view. One woman, however, slipped a greenback or two into his slipper, which his blanket didn't cover. Another, a free-lance photographer documented his presence and commented on how others didn't seem to see him. And I slipped a sack lunch into the open part of his shelter near his head, trying not to disturb his "privacy."

I was behind on my meal mission, so on this Sunday morning I quickly prepared eight sandwiches of  Columbus Herb Roasted Turkey Breast slices. Two sandwiches went into each double-bagged paper sacks, along with two Babybel cheese rounds and two Nature's Bakery fig bar packages, with two napkins. Most of the sandwiches were dressed with Miracle Whip, but a few had Best Foods Mayonnaise. Normally I don't like mayo, but I was short of the Miracle Whip; I tasted the mayo, and discovered it was king of tangy. Time to head to the rally, with the lunches stuffed in my backpack and Centennian bobbing along behind.

Walgreens: At Pine and Broadway there was the same fellow I've seen for years, standing outside Walgreen's with his hat to collect any spare change. I only talked to him once over the years, on a particularly cold day when I think I recall making a donation for anyone who would brave such weather for a handout. Today I made eye contact as I crossed the street, because I knew we would have something to discuss again. This time he was really bundled up, so he wasn't cold, he said. And he wasn't hungry, because someone had just given him a burrito. "I'll catch you next time," I said, and walked on.

6th and Pine: A small man was bent under the load of an enormous backpack, bundled for the weather, his head covered with a stocking cap. I asked him where he's headed. To the library. Homless? Yes. Hungry? Yes. I dug out the first of the lunches and we walked a bit. He explained he stays warm at night with the help of mummy bags he carries in his backpack. (They can be good to 40 below.)  He opened a sandwich and tried to enjoy it, while his nose hung on to a pendulous drip of snot. I told him there were napkins in the sack. He said his name is Robert. That's my name, I said, and we shook hands. He's been living on the streets for four years and survives by spare changing at 6th and Pine.

Westlake Park: On the edge of the rally crowd a small man with a backpack and a Hispanic accent stopped to look into a refuse bin. No question that he wanted food. He was one of the lucky ones. Although he lives on the street, he was on his way to go fishing in Alaska. Lunch no. 2.

Man on the bench:  He was right at the boundary of the crowd; some people squeezed past for a better view. Some stood on the far edge of the bench. The blanket wasn't large enough to cover his entire body, so his legs stuck out. Instead of shoes he wore slippers. (Mental note: Carry spare shoes and socks next time.) He was doing something under the blanket, but I couldn't tell what -- scratching? Tugging on clothing to find a warmer setting? After watching for several minutes, I tucked the lunch in an opening, hoping that, when he arose, he would find it. Lunch no. 3.

5th and Pike: She was sitting with her back to the light standard, on some sort of wheeled contraption, with a rough cardboard sign asking for food. I pulled out the last lunch and spoke with her. She had come to Seattle from Oregon to find work, got hit by a car, and needs a hip replacement. At least she has health care, but she also needs shelter. Her nearest relatives are in Oregon. She seemed to be shivering. She is overweight, which must add to her difficulties in walking.


Walgreens, again: The panhandler was still standing there. I was heading to the drug store to pick up envelopes before heading home, made eye contact and waved. When I came out I gave him a crisp new dollar bill that Nielsen had included in a mailing for a media survey on my use of TV and radio. (I told Nielsen I don't have a TV any more; I get my news and entertainment via the Internet.) I spoke with the panhandler for a moment before heading out. He said his name was Ken. That's my brother's name, I said.

Delivery route for four sack lunches on Jan 15, day of Affordable Care Act rally.

Meals distributed so far: 14.

Ubuntu,

Vancouver: The Spaghetti Factory sentry: UBUNTU!

Vancouver, B.C. Jan 10--Sentries are expected to endure. They stay at their post through tedium and the cold. And so did he, the man in denim pants, a jacket and a stocking cap, as the day grew dark and the chill intensified. Inside, Tammi and I enjoyed our pasta. Outside, he stamped his feet, shrugged off the cold, and hoped to get some spare change from passers by. His effort didn't appear to be productive, but  he endured.

Vancouver, Canada's third largest city and its gateway to the pacific, is an expensive town. The tour guide on our hop-on-hop-off trolley told us that 90 percent of the homes are worth more than $1 million. He stopped the bus in front of one, a well worn and boarded up bungalo whose appearance suggested the family lived below the poverty line. Really? More than a million dollars.  Even with Canada's dollar worth only 76 cents American, the reality was sobering. In this economy, there are going to be homeless people.

Along Vancouver's Hastings Street, the poor gather in the afternoon, setting up shop on the sidewalk to sell small items which I might have expected  to find at Goodwill. I overheard one young man trying to sell trousers.

Tammi had fond memories of Vancouver's Spaghetti Factory and she wanted to dine there, so we walked from the Time Share on Hornby Street, transiting Gastown and stopping briefly at Steamworks Brewery's tap room before heading to the restaurant. That's where I first saw the Sentry, spare-changing. I was wearing several layers, with a scarf and parts of my body could still sense the cold. How could he possibly stay warm?

Our waiter was Kyle, a cheerful and smart young man who was only too happy to convey to the cook my request an additional dish of chicken dippers, in a doggie bag, with napkins. He rushed the order to make sure  it arrived before the Sentry retired for the night. From our vantage point we watched him walk to the curb and present the gift with a warm smile, approach the Sentry with a warm smile, then point to us, watching from our table at the window. The Sentry brightened and waved, and afterward mouthed "thank you" to us, while we waved back and smiled. It was probably 45 minutes before we finished. I had hoped to speak to him before he left, but when we exited the Spaghetti Factory, he was gone. His "shift was over" and another individual with a much heavier coat and a well insulated hat had started his shift. As we exited the restaurant, the new man was not interested in food, just cash. I handed him $5 Canadian, hoping that it would buy him a warm spot to sleep, or a bite to eat, and that he wouldn't simply drink it. Normally I don't like giving money. But the biting cold was bitter and enduring. Under those circumstances,  a beggar  is earning his keep.

Meals distributed so far: 10

 Ubuntu,