He plants himself in front of the New Seasons grocery store where I shop most often. (I do not go there currently because of the workers’ strike, but that’s a different story.) That’s his “job;” he sits on a tall bucket and solicits money from people. We had an extended interaction that I wrote about in July, during which we learned each other’s names. And I felt, upon reflection, that I could have been more generous towards him, energetically and financially. That’s what I wrote about.
The next time I saw him, just a few nights later, he was making some small purchase inside the store, and the total turned out to be $1.29 more than he expected, which I could see distressed him. Since he was immediately ahead of me in line, I offered to pay the difference for him. He seemed greatly relieved, and proposed that, instead of me paying the entire difference, I could contribute a dollar and he could handle the 29 cents, so that’s what we did. All very warm and sweet.
But shortly thereafter, our friendship (so to speak) began to feel a little onerous. He was there outside the store each and every time I came, afternoon or evening. It began to feel like he was my toll collector. He always expected a buck or two, and he always wanted conversation. His need was endless.
I like to share jokes with people, including relative strangers. The type of jokes I favor are what some people call “dad jokes,” mostly innocuous puns. For example: “What do you call a lazy baby kangaroo?” Answer: “A pouch potato!” Or, here is my current favorite: “What did the windmill say when asked what its favorite type of music is?” Answer: “I’m a big metal fan.” I really like that one.
Not having too much to say by way of conversation, over the course of time I shared a joke or three with this guy, whom I’d begun to think of as the sentinel of New Seasons. At one point, he told me he had a joke too, but that it was very bad. “I don’t know if I should tell it,” he said.
“Neither do I,” I said. “Maybe, if it’s really gross, don’t tell it.”
He told it, and it was startlingly ugly, disgusting, cruel, disturbing, and unfunny. I won’t transcribe it here. It involved sexual abuse.
It gave me a somewhat different feeling for the man. Until then, I had seen him as hapless and sweet. Now I perceived him as hapless and sweet, with a deep darkness in him too.
I told him that I disliked the joke and that in my opinion he should never repeat it. I was not scolding; I was just being honest. He grimaced and shrugged. “I told you it was bad,” he said.
One evening I arrived shortly before the store was closing. He said, “Oh darn, I was going to ask you to buy me a slice of pizza today, but it’s too late.” I felt vaguely annoyed that he blithely assumed I would buy him pizza. That night I did not give him a dollar, but offered him a piece of my chocolate bar instead, which he graciously accepted. He did not ask for money. As I unlocked my bicycle and attached my front and rear lights, there was a certain hardness in his eyes as he bid me “Be safe.”
I wondered about that later as I was about to cross Division Street, right before a car ran a red light. It was the first time in quite a long time that I actually felt a bit unsafe, riding my bike home at night.
So was the guy prescient that I needed to be extra careful that night? Or had a part of him been wishing some danger on me, drawing it toward me through the mysterious power of mind?
I am superstitious and perhaps a little nuts myself, you see.
Here’s the thing though. Years ago, when I lived in Berkeley, CA, I volunteered with an organization called the Berkeley Ecumenical Chaplaincy to the Homeless. I was assigned an indigent individual to meet with each week, just to keep him company for an hour or so, not to dispense mental healthcare or anything remotely like that, but simply to give him someone to talk to once in a while. He was unfathomably lonely, severely traumatized from an extraordinarily abusive childhood, mentally ill, and on an elaborate cocktail of psychiatric meds so that he could sleep and also function during the day.
Strictly speaking, he was not exactly homeless; he lived in some subsidized housing, a tiny apartment. But he was a very damaged soul. Over time, in addition to our regular weekly meetings, I occasionally took him out with me to events – poetry slams and little concerts in town. And he began to expect that I would do so on a regular basis. Then, if I happened to mention some event I had attended without him, he would become angry.
He stated flatly at one point that he resented the fact that I was healthier than he was. He wanted to feel that we were on the same level. He would frequently ask me, “So, are you keeping busy?” which was kind of a fantasy question on his part, imagining that I needed to make an effort to stay busy. I was never anything but busy with work and relationships and various other things. He, on the other hand, had a very difficult time filling the hours of his life, and he wanted to see me as being like him in that way. He wanted to feel that we were peers, with similar struggles.
So that was a peculiar dimension of our relationship. I did feel I was learning from him too, growing from our association, but I came to realize I had let him too closely into my life, and that he had begun to feel entitled to my life in some creepy ways. And that he did not actually wish me success and fulfillment. This grew unsettling. I ended our arrangement after four and a half years of meeting with him regularly. In the end, he did thank me for everything; we parted on amicable terms.
So more recently, when the New Seasons sentinel guy asked me how I was doing, how my own life was going, I had little emotional flashbacks. I didn’t really trust that he wished me well. I certainly didn’t want to mention that I’m having financial struggles of my own. And when he would say things like, “I didn’t see you here yesterday,” or “Haven’t seen you for a few days,” it felt weirdly proprietary. As with the guy I used to meet with in Berkeley, it was starting to feel like he was “colonizing” me a little.
I learned that he had a room to stay in during the summer, but that he lost it at the beginning of August and was sleeping outside somewhere. That was the most recent conversation we had, because I began to avoid going to that particular New Seasons store. I didn’t want to see him. I didn’t like feeling that I had to give him money, or chocolate, or even just conversation every time. I didn’t like feeling that I owed him something, simply by virtue of being in less dire straits than he is. I didn’t like pretending we were buddies, with an equal interest in shared conversation.
It felt like a little dance I was expected to engage in every time I saw him, and I felt like I couldn’t ever just say, “Hey, I don’t feel like dancing today.”
I had COVID for two weeks in August anyway, so I didn’t go to any stores during that stretch. But since then, I have not been back to “his” store, though I intend to return there once the New Seasons workers get a contract and I don’t have to feel like I’m crossing some invisible picket line. I wonder if he’ll still be there. I imagine he will be. I don’t know what I’ll do yet.
Me and My Voice
I have this radical business coach, Starr Sheppard. In trade for her visionary coaching services, I do a little writing for her. Most recently, based on the transcript of an interview I conducted with her over Zoom, I ghostwrote this blog post for her (though before she published it, she made several important tweaks to it, honing it more closely to her voice and adding a few details; that’s often how this sort of thing works).
I feel very good about this blog post, and about my relationship with Starr and our process of working together.
I realize that this is the writing I really want to do much more of – writing from the heart, writing that expresses people’s souls, what they really need to say, whether that be business-related or personal.
Deeply honest writing. Writing that pulls no punches.
So I’m taking the privilege just this once (perhaps) of using the Higher Thought newsletter as a vehicle to promote my “day job” business, and here is my pitch to you:
If you’ve got something in your heart and soul that needs to be said, I can help you with the words. Together we will find your voice. I am your writer. Please email me at , and thank you!
Marc is an inspiration and a joy to work with. He listens beautifully and he really gets me. His commitment to finding my voice is clear, and he fluidly takes direction and suggestions. After a few minimal edits and revisions I’ve been thrilled to share our work with my people, and will continue to come back for more.” – Starr Sheppard-Decker
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