kain, not able.

It started as the classic plea, a tale as heartbreaking and old as time: "have any spare change?"

I looked at the one who'd tossed these gentle but desperate words my way: young, mid twenties. African american, clearly gay, kind brown eyes and a desperate look on his face. He had a tired look about him, worn out even. He looked like a friend.

This was years ago. I had no cash. I was in the parking lot of a restaurant I was going to grab a bite in during my break from my day as a high school scheduled student. Accompanied by a girl I had known since I was five years old, I looked at the man in front of us. "I don't have cash, but would you care to join us for lunch?"

We sat down. She and I on one side, him on the other. He bowed his head to pray. Silently, his eyes shut tight, his head tilted toward the table for far longer than I would have expected, at least two still and stoic minutes. Finally, he looked up at me again. He tore into his meal with a vigorous hunger, but not so much so that it took away from his story telling. He told us of his travels ("I came down south because I thought people would be kinder here") (quite the opposite, in his experience). He told us of his exploitation; how older women had adopted him along the way, only to corner him in the night in exchange for his stay.

As he spoke, I couldn't help but look around. I mentioned that at the time I was in high school, and I was on my lunch break. What I did not mention was that mine was all girls, a historic landmark, and a playground of privilege. I looked around to see a small score of women, whom I knew well and who, in any other circumstance, would come up and greet me with a jab and a joke, divert their eyes when they saw my company. They knew me, but because of the man sitting across from me, refused to come close. I was caught off guard and given a new sense of purpose, one I hadn't been exposed to before. I felt indignant.

As the allotted hour neared its end, we began our goodbyes. We gave him our best and we thanked him for the conversation, a breed of which we hadn't experienced in who knows how long. He grinned and expressed his gratitude- that we ate with him, but more importantly that we stopped in the first place. I still think about him. Kain was his name.

That day, all those years ago, I made a playlist; his name the title, the content being songs inspired by what he made me feel. The link is below.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Um1ebSUcmVVDA37xwZCi0?si=qsN6dZpwQQ6Id7s7mQSxGA