My Homeless Friends

“Friends.” Often, the most superficial of words. A mere acquaintance is turned into a friend. Not only that, we all have so many friends, right? The superficial use of “friend” degrades a beautiful relationship.

I never thought I would put a positive spin on the superficial use of “friend,” but in a certain sense I do have many friends. I hardly know them. My interaction with them is usually for 15 to 60 seconds. Rarely, I meet one of these friends more than once, perhaps once every few weeks, not more, and even then, I meet them each time for not more than a minute — two minutes at most. Yet on some level, these are my friends.

Like this: In Denver, as I am sure is the case in countless American cities, people populate the corners of busy intersections. You know the signs they hold up, usually in crude lettering on old cardboard: “Anything helps.” “Disabled vet.” “Homeless with child.” The more cars that pass by, the better the chance of these people receiving a handout — law of averages. I know the Denver corners pretty well by now. I have noticed that as I drive along and a neighborhood becomes more upscale, the corners become empty. But the corners in downtown Denver can always be counted on, so to speak.

I notice these people. I try to notice them as more than objects at a street corner. I figure that if people have to stand outside (or sit on a crude carton) for hours each day, they deserve to be noticed. So I carry around small food packages in my car. Plastic bottles of flavored water (or, in the summer heat, cooled bottled water). Sometimes also small clothing items, like gloves or a knitted winter hat. It’s tricky: If I get to the corner when the light is red, I can easily hand off the items through the window. Sometimes, I might not be at the corner but the light has just turned green and I’m still at three miles per hour, so I can still safely hand food through the window.