red licorice in
his hands. A package of black candy stuck out from his tattered shirt
pocket.
This could only be Licorice Billy, who apparently
had decided to make John’s former spot his own.
I took a good look at him before I got out of my
car. He was shorter than John and his hair was streaked with grey.
His ragged facial hair formed a scraggly beard that touched the base
of his neck.
By his random hand gestures and barely moving
lips, he seemed to be participating in an ongoing conversation with
himself. Every few seconds he used his middle finger to greet
passersby in a way that wasn't usually seen in the Piazza.
I decided to go into Roasted Love through the
kitchen. I wasn’t ready to face Licorice Billy at this point.
When I walked in, I went straight to my boss.
"Jacob, did you see that homeless man sitting outside the shop?"
"I saw him. I don’t know what to do at this
point," said Jacob. "John was one thing. He never caused
any trouble. This one definitely isn’t John. I'm thinking I've only
got one option and that's to have the cops move him away from my
business for good."
I could see that Jacob was torn. His sympathy for
the less fortunate battled with concern for Roasted Love – his
livelihood. I saw his dilemma, but at the same time I wanted to talk
to Licorice Billy first.
"Yeah, I can understand if we need to call
the cops. But do you mind if I take a bagel out to him first?"
Jacob hesitated, but then nodded. "Okay. But
just one."
I filled a take-out cup with black coffee, got a
bagel, and spread a little butter on it. Then I took them out to our
new resident.
He stayed sitting down and quickly took the coffee
and bagel from me. He never said a word but just started on the
coffee first, gulping down the hot beverage. "Do you mind if I
talk with you?" I asked him.
He glanced at the bagel and at the empty cup of
coffee before he responded.
"Suit yourself," he said, in the
roughest, most gravelly voice I'd ever heard. "What do you want
to talk about?"
"Do you know what happened to John?"
He took a big bite of the bagel. "He’s
dead, if that’s what you mean." No emotion of any kind showed
on his face.
"I heard you and John used to fight. What did
you fight about?"
Billy peered inside the empty coffee cup and then
crushed it with one hand. I saw that his fingernails were caked with
permanent dirt. He made a motion as if to throw it onto the sidewalk,
but I raised my hand to stop him. "I wouldn’t advise that,"
I said.
He pushed himself up from the concrete wall,
heaved himself to his feet, and then ambled to the trash container a
few feet away. I noticed that he was several inches shorter than my
own five foot six.
"Yeah, we used to fight," he said. "I
was here before John was. This was my spot to begin with. I picked
the best spot after I saw there were shops selling food here. It’s
better to get leftover food than to pick through a dumpster."
Billy glanced up and down the street, and then
looked at me again. "John and I argued a lot about it." He
snickered. "I guess he won. At least, for a little while."
I didn’t remember this man ever sitting outside
of Roasted Love, but it could have been before I'd started work here.
"You do know the cops have to make you move along if you're –
if you're just hanging out for too long."
I couldn’t bring myself to use the words homeless or street people . Even Licorice Billy was a
human being and deserved some consideration. "Were you around
when John died?"
"No. I don’t even know when it happened. I
mean, I don’t know what time of the day or night he died. I have to
hurry every night to get a bed at the shelter. They don’t let us in
until seven. If I want a bed, I have to be there early." I
resisted the urge to tell him to wipe his dripping black mouth. "I
stay until morning when they kick us all out again."
"I see. Um, tell me – why would you rather
sleep on the concrete instead of a bed?"
"The shelter's got better beds than
his hands. A package of black candy stuck out from his tattered shirt
pocket.
This could only be Licorice Billy, who apparently
had decided to make John’s former spot his own.
I took a good look at him before I got out of my
car. He was shorter than John and his hair was streaked with grey.
His ragged facial hair formed a scraggly beard that touched the base
of his neck.
By his random hand gestures and barely moving
lips, he seemed to be participating in an ongoing conversation with
himself. Every few seconds he used his middle finger to greet
passersby in a way that wasn't usually seen in the Piazza.
I decided to go into Roasted Love through the
kitchen. I wasn’t ready to face Licorice Billy at this point.
When I walked in, I went straight to my boss.
"Jacob, did you see that homeless man sitting outside the shop?"
"I saw him. I don’t know what to do at this
point," said Jacob. "John was one thing. He never caused
any trouble. This one definitely isn’t John. I'm thinking I've only
got one option and that's to have the cops move him away from my
business for good."
I could see that Jacob was torn. His sympathy for
the less fortunate battled with concern for Roasted Love – his
livelihood. I saw his dilemma, but at the same time I wanted to talk
to Licorice Billy first.
"Yeah, I can understand if we need to call
the cops. But do you mind if I take a bagel out to him first?"
Jacob hesitated, but then nodded. "Okay. But
just one."
I filled a take-out cup with black coffee, got a
bagel, and spread a little butter on it. Then I took them out to our
new resident.
He stayed sitting down and quickly took the coffee
and bagel from me. He never said a word but just started on the
coffee first, gulping down the hot beverage. "Do you mind if I
talk with you?" I asked him.
He glanced at the bagel and at the empty cup of
coffee before he responded.
"Suit yourself," he said, in the
roughest, most gravelly voice I'd ever heard. "What do you want
to talk about?"
"Do you know what happened to John?"
He took a big bite of the bagel. "He’s
dead, if that’s what you mean." No emotion of any kind showed
on his face.
"I heard you and John used to fight. What did
you fight about?"
Billy peered inside the empty coffee cup and then
crushed it with one hand. I saw that his fingernails were caked with
permanent dirt. He made a motion as if to throw it onto the sidewalk,
but I raised my hand to stop him. "I wouldn’t advise that,"
I said.
He pushed himself up from the concrete wall,
heaved himself to his feet, and then ambled to the trash container a
few feet away. I noticed that he was several inches shorter than my
own five foot six.
"Yeah, we used to fight," he said. "I
was here before John was. This was my spot to begin with. I picked
the best spot after I saw there were shops selling food here. It’s
better to get leftover food than to pick through a dumpster."
Billy glanced up and down the street, and then
looked at me again. "John and I argued a lot about it." He
snickered. "I guess he won. At least, for a little while."
I didn’t remember this man ever sitting outside
of Roasted Love, but it could have been before I'd started work here.
"You do know the cops have to make you move along if you're –
if you're just hanging out for too long."
I couldn’t bring myself to use the words homeless or street people . Even Licorice Billy was a
human being and deserved some consideration. "Were you around
when John died?"
"No. I don’t even know when it happened. I
mean, I don’t know what time of the day or night he died. I have to
hurry every night to get a bed at the shelter. They don’t let us in
until seven. If I want a bed, I have to be there early." I
resisted the urge to tell him to wipe his dripping black mouth. "I
stay until morning when they kick us all out again."
"I see. Um, tell me – why would you rather
sleep on the concrete instead of a bed?"
"The shelter's got better beds than
Similar Books
