Larry, The Homeless

Larry

I saw him when I walk by my apartment building on my way to work. He was a raw-looking man with tattoos from head to toe. Literally, he had tattoos across his face. The way he put himself together would make one believe was an unfriendly and dangerous person. But I hardlyever saw him move. I only saw when he was there and when he was not.

When I first moved into the neighborhood, the man would not even look at me as I passed. In fact, he would not look at anybody at all. The fear and disgust of this man soon passed over me. I eventually began to feel as if I knew him better than the others that passed by, even though we never spoke a word. I began to wonder what caused his body to be so weathered and his face so blank. I wondered how he became homeless. Though I was too bashful (or maybe insular), I began to make up stories in my head. I would make up his name and his life stories, his past fortunes which lead to his present misfortune of being homeless. I decided his name to be Tim. I decided that he may have been a veteran of a war. Perhaps the psychological influence of war is what caused his homelessness. Perhaps he fell into a pit of drug addicition.

Eventually, however, I quit seeing the man on my corner. I began to make up stories as to why he disappeared. I practically made up his entire life and future to satisfy my curiosity. Eventually, however, I learned around the neighborhood that the old man had passed away. I decided to go to his funeral to possibly meet people who knew him to learn more about him. I feel very bad that I never once even made eye contact with the man, never even smiled. What is even worse, is that I was the only one to show up at his funeral. He had no family; no friends. I was wrong; his name was Larry. He died of a drug overdose the night before I stopped seeing him. I now know what regret truly feels like. I took for granted the existence of an individual. Though I always wish the best for everyone, I never took the time to get to know this one. I’ll never know where he came from or who he was. I’ll never know what lead him into addiction. I’ll never know if I could have helped. He may have became a good friend. We may have hated eachother. But now, I will never know if I could have reached out and prevented somebody from dying alone. And now, I sit here writing this journal, promising myself to never again take for granted somebody else’s sorrow.