Sam
He is older. I see him standing outside the supermarket. Scruffy beard. Pitiful shoes. He smells like a substance plentiful to barnyards and sheep pens. His clothes are threadbare.
He is asking for food. Not money. Not handouts. Just something to eat. He holds no cardboard signs. He’s not bothering anyone. His name is Sam.
“Can you spare some change?” he asks me.
A cigarette is cupped between his fingers. A heavy backpack sits beside his feet. He’s been asking passersby if they can spare change for a Snickers all day, or maybe a sandwich from the deli. A bottle of water even. No takers.
“Anything at all,” he says. “I’m hungry.”
Most don’t acknowledge him. Most treat him as a non-entity.
“Manager told me not to stand out here,” said the man. “Said I was detracting from business, said she’d call the cops. I would leave, but I’m hungry, man. You do weird things when you’re hungry.”
He’s a veteran. Vietnam. Former Marine. “I was 17 when I went over. I was an athlete. Used to play basketball. I wasn’t always this way, man. I had a wife once.”
I ask what happened to the wife.
“One day she realized she’d married a drunk.”
On cue, a woman walks past the sliding doors of the grocery store, exiting into the parking lot. The woman is dressed in business casual. Fancy pocketbook. She doesn’t even glance at my new friend.
“You stand out here and you’re basically invisible. People won’t even make eye contact. To them, you’re a piece of [bad word]. Maybe I am [same word]. Folks treat stray dogs better than stray people.”
An employee exits the store next. A young woman in her mid-20s. She is unfriendly. Her name tag says manager. She tells the man he needs to keep moving. She says the police have already been called. She is firm with the man. A real hard-butt.
The old man takes his verbal dressing down with a hung head. He understands. He is, after all, a Marine. He knows how a chain of command works. He simply God-blesses her. She tells him to git.
He hoists his backpack. He begins a long walk across the parking lot.
“I used to have a dog,” he says.
The dog went everywhere with him. Slept beside him. Ate every meal with him. The dog was hit by a car last month, up near Huntsville.
“I found my old girl the next morning, on the highway. Nobody should have to find their dog that way.”
I give the man some cash. But sadly, I don’t carry much cash anymore. We live in an age of plastic. I am a product of my times.
We are interrupted when a kid clad in an employee uniform races out of the grocery store. Red apron. Thick eyeglasses.
The boy is carrying a grocery sack. Inside the bag are snacks of all varieties. Beef jerky. Cheese. Snickers bars galore. The kid is maybe 14. He is breathless from jogging.
“I thought I’d missed you,” the boy says. “I thought you’d already left, sir.”
Sam accepts the gift bag. His eyes are rimmed red. “Snickers,” the man says.
The boy shakes the man’s filthy hand. “God bless you,” the kid says.
Semper Fi, says the columnist.