For years I worked in the city. I’d commute by train. The walk from the train station to my office was about a mile. In that span, I would pass at least a dozen, sometimes two dozen homeless people. Most begging for spare change.
This was back in the day when people worked in offices. Five days a week. Rain or shine. I passed by these same people every day, week after week, for years.
This was also back when we used this thing called cash to buy stuff, like coffee and lunch and train tickets. The use of cash created this thing called spare change. A mild nuisance jingling in your pockets, though it was handy for vending machines, toll booths, parking meters, and these things called payphones.
Honestly, this was not that long ago.
Anyway, the homeless people were happy to take your spare change. A quarter here, a fistful of dimes and nickels there. It added up. I certainly had change to spare, but there were just so many more of them than coins in my pocket.
The vet holding a cardboard sign scrawled in black Sharpie outside the bank. The old woman spitting profanities under the Wells Street el stop. The man yelling “Happy Tuesday!” by the newsstand on LaSalle (we had these things called newspapers). They each had their own spot, same spot, every day. Rain or shine.
So many. Too many. So rather than give anything, I found it easier to ignore them all. They melded into the urban scenery, like another honking horn or distant siren.
Until I met Roger.
He stood out. It was his kind, gentle smile that got me. Even as I hurried by him, he would look me in the eye and smile. It seemed genuine. It spoke to my heart.
Eventually, I started throwing spare change into the coffee can at his feet. He would always smile, look me in the eye and say, “Thanks.”
One day, I had to wait while another commuter was giving him some money. Then I realized that the commuter was talking to him. Having an actual conversation. How odd, I thought.
Over time I learned (from eavesdropping on these conversations) that the man’s name was Roger. He always sat on the east end of the Washington Street bridge, outside the backstage door of the Opera House. So, Roger, the man on the bridge, became, in my mind, Roger Bridgeman.
One day I said, “Good morning, Roger,” as I deposited the coins. And that changed our relationship. His smile grew even larger, and he started saying more than just thanks.
“Gonna be a beautiful day!” Or “You be sure to get the most out of today!”
His gap-toothed smile was infectious. Somehow, we started talking about movies one day. “Johnny Depp as Tonto was just weird,” he said. “Iron Man 3 or Pacific Rim…much better. Good action!”
Roger was critiquing first run movies. It hit me that Roger doesn’t just sit outside all day on a bridge. Not in the heat or cold or rain or whatever. After rush hour, he’d take his earnings and do a movie marathon.
My friend Dave and I used to do movie marathons. Again, back in the day, you didn’t have assigned seats at movie theaters. We’d go to a matinee in the late morning at a multiplex, pay the discounted ticket price and after the movie was over, buy some popcorn and then walk into another movie. We’d do that all day long. No doubt, Roger and his friends did too.
One day, the big back door to the Opera House was open. The smell of fresh sawdust was thick, bringing with it memories of being on freshly-built sets in the theatre in college. You could see across the empty stage and seats, all the way to the front of the house. Parked out on the sidewalk, was a beautiful, big Harley Davidson motorcycle, all tricked out. Probably belonged to one of the people in the building, I figured. But as I deposited my morning change into Roger’s coffee can, he noticed me looking at the bike. “You like my ride?” Roger said. I looked at him, not sure what he meant, and he flashed that classic grin and slowly pulled back one of the layers of coats he was wearing to reveal a Harley Davidson logo sewn onto the breast of a vest underneath. Then he winked. And I got it. I laughed in reply and told him it was indeed a sweet ride.
Roger was joking around with me. He honestly cracked me up.
Months passed. While at lunch one day, I was hustling to meet a friend and I ran into Roger on the sidewalk. He wasn’t sitting. He was nowhere near the bridge. He was completely out of context and I didn’t recognize him immediately. That is to say, I didn’t place him. I knew that I knew him, just couldn’t think of from where. Before I made the connection, he smiled and said “Hi!” and continued on, like one would any friend. He didn’t stop to ask for change. He was clearly going somewhere, too. Just two friends saying hi on the street.
When COVID hit, I stopped going downtown for months. Later, I’d go in, but only two or three days a week. I never saw Roger again. The spare change I gave him was certainly appreciated. But my time with Roger showed me that seeing him and treating him like another person was maybe more valuable. The basic dignity of not being ignored. Kindness is its own form of currency, providing me an endless bankroll of compassion to humanize everyone around me, homeless people, coworkers, family, neighbors, strangers. Enough wealth to spare and, just maybe, promote real change.