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Description
I’ve seen this man before.  I’m passing out flyers for a documentary that’s playing at the independent movie theatre, and this man passes by at least three times.  His face is familiar, as are all the faces of the homeless people in Harvard Square.  There’s the guy who is rooted in front of CVS, smiling and waving as people give him the change from his purchases.  I think he may be a little bit crazy.  Then there’s the angry man, also probably a bit off his rocker, who paces in front of the entry to the subway, shoving editions of a publication for the benefit of the homeless in people’s faces, and shouting after them when they refuse.  I always try to avoid him.  There’s the old woman with long, grey dreadlocks who wanders up and down, and then there’s this guy.  He always seems to be going someplace.  He looks like he could have been somebody in another life.  He is thin and short, maybe forty years old.  He is completely bald, mustachioed, and his skin is the color of caramel.  His eyes look angry and alert.  He passes me by – “I already got one, thanks,” – and he talks to the smiler in front of the CVS.  I notice Mr. Smiles seems glad, albeit not surprised, to see this man.  He, on the other hand, seems to be trying to get something out of Mr. CVS.  He darts back and forth in front of the slow, fat bum, pacing and glancing up from time to time, as if he had someplace to be on time.  Eventually, he comes back and stations himself across the sidewalk from me, leaning against a bench and trying to get change from passers-by.  We don’t look at each other.  I don’t know if it’s because we don’t like each other, or we don’t trust each other, or we’re just not interested.  Much more people stop for me than for him.  A few ask about the documentary, and I’m happy to tell them all I know.  I feel guilty I’m getting more attention, since I’m not the one who needs something, but there is something hostile about him.  Maybe life has done him some great wrong.  Who will ever know?  When sidewalk traffic slows, we look at each other and shrug.
I’ve gotten so I can tell who will take a flyer and who will not, although there are always exceptions to the rule.  Usually the teenage guys and 20-something men will take one – the more straight-laced they look, the less likely they are to grab a flyer.  Stoners always take a few.  A 25-year old white guy in a dirty undershirt with a blonde beard and dreadlocks stops for me.  He mutters a sotto voce “Thanks,” and is on his way.  He takes a look at the flyer – it’s for a sympathetic antiestablishment documentary on Tommy Chong, a celebrity imprisoned for manufacturing bong pipes – spins around, and salutes me with his joint.  I’m a bit surprised that he’s smoking a J in broad daylight, but hey.  The sickly sweet smell lingers, and I smile embarrassedly at the people who stare after him.
Teenage girls in trios usually take a flyer, but they take a hell of a long time about it.  They stop, stare at my hand for a moment, then slowly…agonizingly slowly…reach out and take the blasted thing.  “Ooh, what’s that?” their two friends will ask, craning their necks.  “I dunno,” says the brave one.  Giggles will ensue.  A chorus of shy “thank you’s” subsides as soon as it begins, and they walk away along the sidewalk at a leisurely pace.
Younger men in couples usually take a flyer.  They will disengage their hands from their girlfriends’ ass, grab one, leer in my direction, and continue.  Older couples never, ever take one.  Never.  The grey-haired woman will whisper an embarrassed “that’s ok,” in my direction, and the man’s mouth will tighten.  In my mind, I verbally abuse them quite liberally.  Single old ladies usually don’t take one, but if I see one on the horizon dressed in red and purple, with flyaway hair and a huge messy handbag, I flash a brilliant smile and hold one out.  “Thanks, dearie,” they will murmur distractedly, and stick it in their hat.  They might even go to the movie without even knowing what it’s about.  Old men usually don’t take one either, except of course the crazy ones.  A lonely old guy in a lumberjack shirt with a big white beard (he reminds me of a forgotten Santa Claus) thanks me and takes a flyer.  He stops dead in front of me, pinning me to the wall.  “This looks interesting,” he says.  “It opens on Wednesday,” I counter.  “Hope you can come.”  Eventually I give him a little nudge and he trudges along his way.  Mr. Angry Eyes across the sidewalk is amused.  I give him a dirty look and focus my attention on some Asian tourists approaching starboard.  Not one even looks at me – bad manners I guess.  I give them the finger behind my hand.  Sheena the Punk Rocker, replete with bleached, spiky hair approaches and takes a flyer, giving me a crooked smile and winking one black-lined eye.  I focus on her retreating fishnetted legs, and by the time I snap back to attention several people have passed me by.  I overcompensate, frenetically handing out flyers to everyone, even a short woman whom I realize too late is about seven years old.  Her mother gives me a dirty look as she passes me by.  I look elsewhere.  A gay couple who must each be about six foot seven slouch down the middle of the sidewalk.  They giggle loudly, flipping back their hair, and I am struck by the thought that they are not so much homosexual as exhibitionist.  They both take a flyer for A/K/A Tommy Chong – “Thanks bundles, hon,” – and I drop the next flyer as an ambulance comes screaming up, stopping right in front of me.  Some EMT’s run down the sidewalk and return a moment later, wheeling a body on a stretcher into the back of the vehicle.  They are gone as quickly as they arrived.
Elsewhere – where all the people I’ve seen and have yet to see are going.  I wonder where their paths all lead.  I wonder what Mr. CVS does at the close of day.  I wonder where the blond stoner goes to when he’s tired of wandering.  I wonder what the teenager girls will grow up to be.  I wonder how the old couple will die.  I wonder what Sheena’s past looks like, where she’s from.  I wonder how much I could ever know about her, even if we became friends.  I wonder how many children the body in the stretcher is leaving behind.  There is no way of knowing.  Maybe they wonder about me too.

Description
I’ve seen this man before.  I’m passing out flyers for a documentary that’s playing at the independent movie theatre, and this man passes by at least three times.  His face is familiar, as are all the faces of the homeless people in Harvard Square.  There’s the guy who is rooted in front of CVS, smiling and waving as people give him the change from his purchases.  I think he may be a little bit crazy.  Then there’s the angry man, also probably a bit off his rocker, who paces in front of the entry to the subway, shoving editions of a publication for the benefit of the homeless in people’s faces, and shouting after them when they refuse.  I always try to avoid him.  There’s the old woman with long, grey dreadlocks who wanders up and down, and then there’s this guy.  He always seems to be going someplace.  He looks like he could have been somebody in another life.  He is thin and short, maybe forty years old.  He is completely bald, mustachioed, and his skin is the color of caramel.  His eyes look angry and alert.  He passes me by – “I already got one, thanks,” – and he talks to the smiler in front of the CVS.  I notice Mr. Smiles seems glad, albeit not surprised, to see this man.  He, on the other hand, seems to be trying to get something out of Mr. CVS.  He darts back and forth in front of the slow, fat bum, pacing and glancing up from time to time, as if he had someplace to be on time.  Eventually, he comes back and stations himself across the sidewalk from me, leaning against a bench and trying to get change from passers-by.  We don’t look at each other.  I don’t know if it’s because we don’t like each other, or we don’t trust each other, or we’re just not interested.  Much more people stop for me than for him.  A few ask about the documentary, and I’m happy to tell them all I know.  I feel guilty I’m getting more attention, since I’m not the one who needs something, but there is something hostile about him.  Maybe life has done him some great wrong.  Who will ever know?  When sidewalk traffic slows, we look at each other and shrug.
I’ve gotten so I can tell who will take a flyer and who will not, although there are always exceptions to the rule.  Usually the teenage guys and 20-something men will take one – the more straight-laced they look, the less likely they are to grab a flyer.  Stoners always take a few.  A 25-year old white guy in a dirty undershirt with a blonde beard and dreadlocks stops for me.  He mutters a sotto voce “Thanks,” and is on his way.  He takes a look at the flyer – it’s for a sympathetic antiestablishment documentary on Tommy Chong, a celebrity imprisoned for manufacturing bong pipes – spins around, and salutes me with his joint.  I’m a bit surprised that he’s smoking a J in broad daylight, but hey.  The sickly sweet smell lingers, and I smile embarrassedly at the people who stare after him.
Teenage girls in trios usually take a flyer, but they take a hell of a long time about it.  They stop, stare at my hand for a moment, then slowly…agonizingly slowly…reach out and take the blasted thing.  “Ooh, what’s that?” their two friends will ask, craning their necks.  “I dunno,” says the brave one.  Giggles will ensue.  A chorus of shy “thank you’s” subsides as soon as it begins, and they walk away along the sidewalk at a leisurely pace.
Younger men in couples usually take a flyer.  They will disengage their hands from their girlfriends’ ass, grab one, leer in my direction, and continue.  Older couples never, ever take one.  Never.  The grey-haired woman will whisper an embarrassed “that’s ok,” in my direction, and the man’s mouth will tighten.  In my mind, I verbally abuse them quite liberally.  Single old ladies usually don’t take one, but if I see one on the horizon dressed in red and purple, with flyaway hair and a huge messy handbag, I flash a brilliant smile and hold one out.  “Thanks, dearie,” they will murmur distractedly, and stick it in their hat.  They might even go to the movie without even knowing what it’s about.  Old men usually don’t take one either, except of course the crazy ones.  A lonely old guy in a lumberjack shirt with a big white beard (he reminds me of a forgotten Santa Claus) thanks me and takes a flyer.  He stops dead in front of me, pinning me to the wall.  “This looks interesting,” he says.  “It opens on Wednesday,” I counter.  “Hope you can come.”  Eventually I give him a little nudge and he trudges along his way.  Mr. Angry Eyes across the sidewalk is amused.  I give him a dirty look and focus my attention on some Asian tourists approaching starboard.  Not one even looks at me – bad manners I guess.  I give them the finger behind my hand.  Sheena the Punk Rocker, replete with bleached, spiky hair approaches and takes a flyer, giving me a crooked smile and winking one black-lined eye.  I focus on her retreating fishnetted legs, and by the time I snap back to attention several people have passed me by.  I overcompensate, frenetically handing out flyers to everyone, even a short woman whom I realize too late is about seven years old.  Her mother gives me a dirty look as she passes me by.  I look elsewhere.  A gay couple who must each be about six foot seven slouch down the middle of the sidewalk.  They giggle loudly, flipping back their hair, and I am struck by the thought that they are not so much homosexual as exhibitionist.  They both take a flyer for A/K/A Tommy Chong – “Thanks bundles, hon,” – and I drop the next flyer as an ambulance comes screaming up, stopping right in front of me.  Some EMT’s run down the sidewalk and return a moment later, wheeling a body on a stretcher into the back of the vehicle.  They are gone as quickly as they arrived.
Elsewhere – where all the people I’ve seen and have yet to see are going.  I wonder where their paths all lead.  I wonder what Mr. CVS does at the close of day.  I wonder where the blond stoner goes to when he’s tired of wandering.  I wonder what the teenager girls will grow up to be.  I wonder how the old couple will die.  I wonder what Sheena’s past looks like, where she’s from.  I wonder how much I could ever know about her, even if we became friends.  I wonder how many children the body in the stretcher is leaving behind.  There is no way of knowing.  Maybe they wonder about me too.