Every day, the haggard, toothless old woman spat out profanities at passersby under the el stop at Madison and Wells. She had a wild, dangerous look, like a wounded, cornered animal. I always took care to avoid eye contact.

I have worked in downtown Chicago for many years. There have always been many homeless people along the route from the train to my office. So many that I began to ignore them. They melded into the urban scenery, like cabs, food trucks, and Starbucks. Some were easier to ignore than others, like those that sat silently, head down, holding a cardboard sign scrawled in black Sharpie with a brief synopsis of their plight, a plea for any help, and God Bless. Some were loud, crying out their same refrain over and over.

“Spare some change? Spare some change?”

“Please! Can you help me buy a sandwich?”

“HAPPY TUESDAY!”

So many. Passive and aggressive. I couldn’t possibly afford to give even a little to them all. How could I afford to do that? I would ask myself, as I stood in the long line waiting for my three dollar cup o’ joe.

So rather than give anything, I found it easier to ignore them all.

Until I met Roger.

Out of the dozens of displaced souls I passed, one guy 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. And 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 the man. 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, in addition to my monetary offering, I started saying, “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!” he might say. Or “You be sure to get the most out of today!”  

His gap-toothed smile was unpretentious and infectious. Somehow, we started talking about movies one day. He gave me his review of not one but three different films that had just opened. And it struck me that he must not just sit out on this cold bridge all day long. That’d be crazy. After the rush hour, he must head someplace warm. Like a multiplex. Sit in the dark and move from movie to movie throughout the day, with a big box of refillable popcorn. 

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. It was clever. 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 me to ask for change. He was clearly going somewhere, too. Just two friends saying hi on the street. 

I have no idea how much money I put into Roger’s can over the years. It didn’t matter. I never missed it. Money is obviously important to those unfortunate people, like Roger. But perhaps more precious is being recognized as also human. Engaging them in ways we take for granted. As an equal. As a person.

We may not be able to spare some change for all of those on the streets, but each of us can afford to humanize the people around us. Even those who are wounded and spitting profanity. Kindness is its own kind of currency. The currency of dignity.