Love Should Be Put Into Action

He had a good heart and no home. He needed a hand. All he asked was 20 minutes of my time.

Christopher the day I told him he looked good.

The first time I saw him, from across the park where street people go, I thought Michael had finally come back. He was puttering in Michael’s spot beside the trash cans. Looked like Michael too, rangy with a hint of handsome in jeans that hadn’t seen Tide for a while. Young enough to be my son, old enough to drag a chain of loss behind him. My dog and I drew closer. No, not Michael.

The stranger introduced himself: Christopher, evicted by a landlord keen to gussy up a cheap flat and cash in. He ruffled Casey’s fur as he showed me his encampment. It had a Boy Scout’s sense of order—the ground freshly raked, the edges lined up just so in the motley stack of his belongings. From a computer outside his tent, he scheduled gigs as a cleaner. Someone liked him well enough to let him use their Wi-Fi. Just because a person has no home doesn’t mean he can’t have good neighbors.

A woman who walks a dog will meet a lot of men. Where I live, they’re mostly down and out. I met Michael in this very park, beside a sprawling patch of garbage: old clothes, empty bottles, trash bags overflowing with more of the same. Michael wanted me to know he hadn’t made this mess. He was cleaning it up. “My way of giving back,” he said. When he smiled, I saw his missing teeth. He’d been a good-looking man, still was if you paid attention.

Christopher was more than good looking. His eyes were that electric, gaze-holding blue that can be bought for the price of tinted contact lenses. He leaned against a tree the way some men lean against a bar, as if today was going to be his day. A wave of emotion walloped me, and in it bobbed memories of young men who now are grizzled or dead. I landed on the shore of an impossible world where Christopher and I were both 19 and glowing. I followed him home to a flat with a joint on the nightstand and a sheet on the mattress where we tumbled like puppies.

Someone ought to tell him he made a good impression. Might as well be me, an old woman heading home with her dog for a grapefruit Perrier.

Returning to myself, I thought of my son, 52 and graying. When he drives in a blizzard, I worry. Christopher was 47, the age my second child might be. He told me a little of his life. Never married, no drugs. Tough on the addicts who used to hang out in the park. “I’m in charge now,” he told them. The street ages people fast, but not Christopher, yet. Someone ought to tell him he made a good impression. Might as well be me, an old woman heading home with her dog for a grapefruit Perrier. “You look good” might have been the best thing he heard that day.

How could I help? Laundry detergent would come in handy. And food, more than anything. “We’ll be back,” I said.

Nearly five years had passed since Michael asked for my help one muggy day in June. We’d been chatting for about 10 minutes, one for every year of his descent from family man to street person. When his daughter died of cancer at 13, alcohol swallowed him. He lost his job, his marriage and his home. His eyes reddened as he spoke. “Could you do one thing for me?” he asked. He held out a plastic bottle, the kind they sell in dollar stores. “If you could fill this for me, I’d be grateful.”

There’s a fountain at a nearby splash pad, surrounded by a park where walking trails looped in all directions. But I thought of grapefruit Perrier waiting at home, and the heat of the pavement against Casey’s paws. Thought of the 20 sticky minutes this errand would add to our walk. I directed Michael to the splash pad, where he could fill his bottle anytime he wanted. “It’s beautiful there,” I promised. “You’re going to love it.”

Halfway home, I realized he wouldn’t. The families at the splash pad wouldn’t want him anywhere near their kids. I remembered something he’d told me: “People judge me because I’m dirty and thin.” For 20 minutes of my time, I could have spared him one more humiliation.

There are poems that live in my mind and pulse like the backbeat of a song in moments that confound me. “Chemin de Fer,” by Elizabeth Bishop, is that kind of poem. It might as well have been waiting for Michael and his empty water bottle. Bishop conjures an “impoverished” landscape where two lonely characters inhabit parallel solitudes. Before Michael, I wondered why she named her poem after the French for railroad. I get it now: missed connections, different tongues. Bishop gives the most memorable line to a dirty hermit who screams his anguish, not knowing if anyone hears him. Someone does, the silent narrator. The poem concludes:

"Love should be put into action!"
screamed the old hermit.
Across the pond an echo
tried and tried to confirm it.

I spent years watching for Michael. I wanted to make amends any way I could. Passing his old corner, I’d think of the hermit’s cry. Michael gave me one shot at putting love into action, and I passed for the sake of convenience. He’d remember me, if at all, as a smooth talker. Christopher asked for nothing and was giving more than he knew—a chance to redeem myself.

Care has a way of seeding itself like dandelion fluff on the wind.

I met Christopher one morning last April. All spring and summer I’d drop by when I could, to cheer him on and leave a care package. In June he told me he’d found a new place. Six more weeks and it would be his. Meanwhile the city had taken his tent (no camping in the park; rules were rules). Two tarps covered all he owned. Anything of value would be stolen if he left the spot.

Care has a way of seeding itself like dandelion fluff on the wind. I’d written about Christopher on social media, and people were asking for updates. Deborah, whom I had never met, drove across town to the park, filled her car with Christopher’s possessions and stored them in her garage. Six more weeks till move-in day. Then he’d celebrate by cooking his favorite meal: roast beef with red onions, garlic and banana peppers.

Christopher’s move-in date came and went. A few more days, he told me, before he disappeared. I checked the park once, twice, half a dozen times. Not a trace of him remained. In 20 minutes I could have given Michael what he needed that hot day long ago. Water. How simple was that? With Christopher, nothing was simple.

Two weeks before Christmas, I sat down for coffee with Deborah. She too has raised a grown son. We haven’t made the difference we imagined for Christopher, but trying has made us friends. He hasn’t answered her text or mine. If he had a home by now, you’d think he would need his possessions. “Sometimes I wonder if he’s still alive,” she said.

I asked what she meant to do about his stuff. “Hold onto it,” she answered, as if she had any other option. I’d be setting a cutoff date, but maybe Deborah is onto something. She’s keeping a place in the world for Christopher. One day he just might saunter in, with a plan, a smile and a roast all ready for its bed of banana peppers.

Have you ever tried to help a street person in your neighborhood? Has someone else’s caring ever nudged you to try harder? I’d love to know your experience of putting love into action—or trying to.