Man on the Street

Monday

Many times, I walked to my downtown office and possibly every day I saw him standing on the corner. No matter the weather and as extreme as it can be in Alberta he wore torn jeans, old black Velcro runners and a black hoodie. Numb to his appearance I cannot tell you how long I have been aware of him or if I had seen his face. All I remembered was his daily vigil of standing on the corner of a Jasper Avenue intersection.

It was a brisk Monday morning. The January weather was erratic but that day the wind was memorable. I bundled up, hat, scarf, mitts, and the warmest boots I had. I grabbed an old grocery bag to put my dress shoes in and thought about the man. I added a scarf, tuque, and mitts. I was a bit nervous about approaching him and giving extra warmth to him. How would he respond? I assumed he was mentally ill and that scared me a bit, but I felt I needed to do this possibly out of my own guilt.

As I approached him my heart raced, feeling my face flush I almost changed my mind. When I approached the man, he did not move. I could smell his un-showered body and did all I could not to cringe. Holding my breath, I took out the mitts, hat and scarf and held them out towards him. He did not move but I heard his breathing become more rapid and he cleared his throat still not looking up. I stepped foreword and held my arm out closer to him. “I’m in a rush,” I said, “here.”

He looked up so slightly and from the edge of the hoodie I could see his eyes as they met mine. “Why?” he asked is almost a whisper.

“It’s cold, take them. I really need to get to work.” I thrust them at his chest, he grabbed them, and part of my right hand was caught in his grip. He did not let go just peered into my eyes. I yanked my hand away spun off as fast as I could.

I thought about the man all day feeling his grip not only of my hand but how his stare held my eyes. His foul smell on me all day. I repeatedly asked the women in my office if I stunk. Apparently, I did not. But that smell did not leave my nose. As the closing hour drew closer my heart began to beat a bit faster and I became nervous about seeing him on the way home. “Maybe I should take another street or even cross it for that block?” I wondered. “Yes, that was the plan take another path.” I muttered to myself. A block away I crossed the street, walking with a quick pace with my head lowered the closer I came to his intersection. When I reached the lights across from his corner, I stopped in the crowd waiting to cross. With my head still lowered it was not hard to miss the bundle neatly folded on the curb against the light post. The mittens, hat, and scarf.

I looked across the street, searching for him. He was there. Same position same spot as always. At this point I was mad. “Why would he not accept my gift? How did he know I would not walk home the same way, or did he know?” I took the bundle and crossed the street walking straight towards him. He looked up. The first time I ever seen him truly look up. I saw the face clearly of a man who did not want to talk. The stern glare penetrated through me, making me dizzy and confused. I stumbled. His eyes did not move from me. Carrying the bundle, I walked, almost ran past the man.

Tuesday

I never slept well. Unsure how to feel the man’s eyes were all I saw when I closed mine. All I could smell was him. I showered then still smelling him washed my clothes and bathed. Still, it lingered, with my stress and lack of sleep I decided to forget him. I tried to do something nice. He did not want it and that is ok. My life did not need to be disrupted. I did not need to worry about the stranger. I bundled up again, looking at the freshly washed gift I tried to give and shut the drawer.

As I walked my mind raced trying to rationalize the situation and make it not the big issue, I felt it was. As I came closer to the corner, I felt my heart race and face flush once again. I lowered my head and quickened my pace. When I got to the corner the light was red and I had to stand there waiting. The no too familiar smell grazed across my nose, I was sure I felt him staring. I did not raise my head and waited. As feet, around me moved forward I allowed the people heard me across the street. Once across I felt safe. Why I did it? I do not know but I turned to look at him. There he stood looking taller facing me head up smiling wearing my once intended gift. I gasped and stumbled back finding my self on my back. Two men picked me up. “Are you ok?”,one asked.

“Fine, thank you.” I nodded to the men and hastily made my way to work. Once off the elevator I rushed to the washroom. The man’s stench surrounded me and seemed to get stronger. I vomited.

After cleaning up I spoke to my co-worker Marcy. “Have you ever noticed the guy on the corner of Jasper and 101? I think maybe he is homeless he is there every day.”

She looked confused.” I walk that way almost everyday and never noticed. I did see you take a spill after crossing.” She snickered at me.

“I fell because he scared me. You never saw him?” I questioned.

“Nope just you and your graceful tumble.” She quipped as she winked.

I looked at this woman wondering if she was crazy or blind, “O.K. Walk home with me after work I’ll point him out.”

“Sure.” She replied. “But I don’t get what the issue is your having with him.”

I then told Marcy the story and asked her several times how she never noticed him. She just shrugged. “Well, there are a lot of homeless dudes roaming around I don’t pay attention. I’m looking for the one that will take me out of this place.” She laughed and raised her hands to the surroundings.

After work we walked. My palms were so sweaty I could not stand having my gloves on. We chatted and walked. As we got closer to the corner my heart sped up and I felt the redness grow in my face as I looked for him. “Well, here we are. No mystery homeless guy.” She snorted.

“Will you meet me in the morning and walk with me? Maybe he will be back then.” I asked.

Marcy looked at me like I was a child who needed a mother. “Yea.”

We said our goodbyes and I walked into my building. Relieved and confused I could not help but wonder where he was. As I walked in, I looked at the set of drawers in my closet I keep my hats and scarves and other items. I then froze thinking “If he was wearing them was, he in here?” I stood there afraid to open the drawer then wondering, “If he was not on the corner was, he here now?” I took a deep breath and opened the drawer. There they sat unmoved from the position I left them in. Sleep was not on the agenda that night.

I laid there frozen every sound alerting me to a possible intruder. I searched the apartment no one was there all five times I looked.

Wednesday

Marcy met me outside. I told her about my night. She was quiet but attentive. As we approached the corner the nervous feeling took over again, but I did not lower my head. He was not there. Scanning the street, the entire way to work I barley heard Marcy as she explained my imagination got the best of me and all the typical phrases one would say to another in this situation.

Marcy was sweet and offered to walk me home. He was no place to be seen. She offered to meet me in the morning. I accepted.

The drawer in my closet still held the unreceived gift. I went to bed and slept a dreamless night.

Thursday

The walk to and from work with Marcy was uneventful. The man was not there. I began to think maybe my mind was playing tricks on me. So, when Marcy offered to walk with me Friday, I said not to worry, I am ok on my own. She seemed grateful.

The drawer in my closet still held the undeceived gift. I went to bed and slept a dreamless night.

Friday

I hummed in the shower that morning. I was going to approach my day as positive as I could not let my imagination take over. My mother always told me I over think things and make too much out of little issues.

I dressed and prepared for my day. I opened the drawer, and the bundle was still there. Part of me wanted to put it on, just so it could not end up anyplace else. Then I scoffed, got ready and made my way out.

The morning was cool but not with the sharp sting of the wind. So far so good. As I approached the corner, I caught a glimpse of the black hoodie. He was back. This time he was not facing the street head down. But directly at me. Wearing the hat gloves and scarf. My knees buckled. I felt the familiar pounding in my chest and flushed face. I spun around and intended to run home. There he stood. I full force ran into him, and he did not budge. I turned to run the other direction when he grabbed my shoulders, “Karen.” He blurted out looking into my eyes but nothing alive in his, I wondered if he even saw me, and how did he know my name.

“What is happening?” I screamed.

Calmly he spoke only 4 words, “Karen and Thomas Rider.” Then he walked away. Leaving me there confused and upset, he disappeared into the crowd. I decided there was no way I was going to work. I rushed home and called in sick.

Craving the sanctuary of my bed I crawled into it, head spinning with questions. “My name is Karen but not Rider, and who is Thomas?” It was too much, I cried until exhaustion took me and I drifted off.

When I woke a large part of the day was gone. It was three and I felt that nagging hunger pain. I decided to get up. After a hot shower, I prepared tea and some soup. Hoping the comfort would take away the memories of the week and the vivid dreams my nap held. Strange images haunted my sleep of the man begging me for help and reaching out for me from a car window. His face exaggerated with pain and sadness, bordering on anger.

I jumped when my phone rang breaking the still coldness that surrounded me. “Hi mom.” I answered.

“I called your office they said your sick, what’s wrong? The flu? Everyone has it right now. Your father had it, but it did not last long.” She rattled on about the flu and articles she saw on the news and read. I don’t remember all she said I wasn’t really listening.

“Mom do you know any one named Rider?” I blurted out. Silence was the only response I received. “Mom? I asked do you know anyone named Rider.”

“Where did you hear that?” She asked, her upbeat tone now dark and subdued.

“It doesn’t matter. I just heard the names Karen and Thomas Rider today.” I am curious what they mean to me.

“Tell me exactly who said them to you and why.” She demanded in a firm yet eerily quiet voice. I explained my week to her. She quietly listened. Asking only a few short questions. “Thomas is your brother. Rider is your birth name. We adopted you as a baby. He was older and had some issues we did not think we were prepared to handle. The adoption worker recommended that he did not have contact with you. And you were 16 months old. No one expected you to remember anything.”

“What in the actual fuck mom? How could you not tell me I was adopted? How could you not tell me I had an older brother?” I screamed at this woman I thought I was connected to in every way I at that moment felt like a stranger in my own life. She was on the other end crying, explaining, not one word I can repeat because I only heard noise. My head pounded I hung up then turned off my phone. I feel dizzy and the room turned black.

Saturday

I woke up on the kitchen floor. At first unsure where I was in the dark the only clues were my last memories before everything turning black and the cold linoleum pressed to my face. In pain, my head and body, I struggled to my feet. Using the chair and table to hold me up I found my way to the couch. On my coffee table was my laptop, I opened and turned it on. Once warmed up I went onto Google punching in Karen and Thomas Rider. Some links to people I don’t know came up for Facebook and other social media sites. There he was Thomas Rider a link to his face book. My hand hovered over the mouse as I debated clicking on the link. Again, with the racing heart and flushed face the idea that I may end up with a heart attack soon fleeted through my mind. I clicked.

There he was the man in the black hoodie. This time the hood was down. He was still stoic, eyes lifeless, he stared back at me. I reluctantly scrolled down unsure what I would find.

No more pictures, nothing filled out in the ‘About me’ section, only five friends listed. I looked down further to his feed. The last activity was 5 years earlier a simple message on his wall. RIP one friend wrote. Before that was a message, he placed the day before. Goodbye Karen.

My guts began to burn, confusion took over. I opened another window and searched only his name. More links popped up. After the same link to his Facebook an article was there, titled, ‘Young man dies in foster care.’

I read the article. There I discovered my past and my brother’s life. Neatly packaged for the readers to skim across as they enjoyed their morning coffee. My sheltered life, lived with no worries, was the opposite of my brother’s. I went to good schools and college. Had a nice home and family, friends a car at 16. Idyllic. An only child I was doted on and nurtured. The woman I knew as my mother was a traditional housewife and mother. She did not work outside of the home and dedicated her existence to making sure that me and her husband, the man I knew to be my father, were happy and content. My adopted father is a kind and generous man, with no vices other than an addiction to golf and bad jokes. My brother lived another life. His was full of chaos and movement. Pain and suffering. The article explained that he, we came from a woman was homeless and our father was unknown. Thomas was moved from foster home to foster home and had several mental health issues, this led him to, on occasion take a trip in the back seat of a police car.

The article read how in the last foster placement it was alleged that the foster parents had an 18th birthday party for him. He was to then transition into a setting for adults. After blowing out the 18 candles, Thomas Rider excused himself to the washroom where he hung himself.

I closed the laptop. The sun began to rise, my living room filled with an orange glow. I decided to go back to bed. As I stood up, I saw him standing in the entry way. The morning rays seemed to wrap them selves around him. His eyes did not look lifeless but merely sad. A small, crooked smile, not unlike mine crossed his lips. I stood there wondering if I was asleep. No racing heart or flushed face, just wonderment and sadness consumed me. I stood there frozen; he did not move. “Everyday I asked to see you.” He spoke. “They never let me.”

“I didn’t know.” I replied. His response was a simple nod.

He turned and began to walk towards the door, pausing for a moment he looked over his shoulder. “Thanks for keeping me warm. Thanks for the gift. Today is my birthday” Then he faded as he walked away.

Sunday

I had taken the rest of Saturday to myself. Sleeping and when awake researching. I spoke to the five friends on his Facebook. Some stories I wish I wasn’t told. None I’ll forget. I learned who my brother was and with all the information, I realized I am still the same person. Yes, a part was behind a vale for many years, but what would it have done if I knew it? Did my parents do the right thing by not telling me? I don’t know. I do know they love me and did the best for me as they saw it.

Now

My Mother and I struggle with guilt at times about the life Thomas had and she wonders if she could have helped him and if he would be still alive. I wonder that too and have wrestled with some resentment towards the parents I have and the workers and foster care system in general.

I love my parents and am grateful for them. I have a lovely life. We don’t speak about what I saw that week. Honestly, I don’t think they completely believe me, but must accept I discovered my past. A past that is a part of who I am in some small and some big ways.

Now seven years later I am married and have a son. Little Thomas and I go every year to his uncle’s grave. My son, five years old this year protested a bit. “Mom going to see a dead man in a grave is weird on my birthday.”