You Know Me

George sat on the ground, his back against the concrete pillar under the overpass in the middle of the city. The traffic overhead had snapped him out of a daydream he'd forgotten, into a life he could barely remember.

"How the hell did I get here?!" He thought.

His fingers were cold but he could still feel the gritty texture of his dirty jeans. With a military discipline he took a quick inventory of his situation. He felt sick or maybe hungry, he couldn't tell the difference. He seemed to be in one piece but every piece of him felt weak. He stood up; hearing his bones popping, his wet shoes squeaking and finally as he straightened his back, a THUMP on the ground in front of him as a little-black-book bounced before landing at the edge of the pavement. George squinted to read the cover. "MEMORIES"

Carefully, he scooped it up. The worn edges of the book seemed to fit right into the rough worn palms of his hands and he began to realize just where he was. That he wasn't there by accident, he lived there under that bridge. He "lived" in many places across the city; anywhere he could find shelter or warmth for a night or an afternoon or for ten minutes of peace. He could remember only the consistent activities of his daily routines. His stops across the city were always the same. The peak hours for foot traffic were always the same. The best spots for a chance at food were always the same. The loneliness was always the same. Loneliness came when he was surrounded by people who would push against each other to avoid touching him. It came when police would flash lights at him to make him move further down the block, and it especially came when someone would shout his own name at him but he swore he'd never met them before. But George didn't feel lonely when he was truly alone. In those moments he felt peace.

"What a pathetic life I must've had to bring me to this," George thought, resting his

face between his knees. "Just a piece of garbage under the bridge."

He sat back down with a cloud of dust rising from him like a spirit. Rubbing the tattered book between his palms he felt the urge to throw it into traffic. He wanted to throw something, break something, make a noise, shout and scream but he couldn't. He didn't want to hurt anyone. He didn't want to bother anyone.

The cover of the book sagged toward the middle when George squeezed it. It was thinner than it should be. The binding made a crackling sound as he lifted the cover to reveal the few remaining pages. In bold black letters the page read, "Food - Fifth and Goddard with green and white on the door."

After reading it a third time it became clear that the sick feeling in his stomach was hunger. "Fifth and Goddard" sounded familiar to George and before he knew it his legs were working hard to carry him in the right direction.

When he arrived his instinct was to hide in the alley behind the Italian cafe. This is where the book led him, but where was the food? The dumpster seemed right, but before he could get to it the back door opened and out stepped an old man wearing chef whites and an apron. George turned to run but stopped when the man shouted his name. "George come here!" The man said. "I've got something for you." George stepped closer as the old man held out a bag. "You need a good meal before your trip." George timidly took the bag. It was heavy and smelled incredible. "Why?" George muttered. The old man smiled and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small scrap of paper and unfolded it. "You gave me this page from your book when you picked me up off the ice after I fell last year. You waited with me until the ambulance came. It's just a blank page but you told me to keep it to remember you." George tried to remember but he just couldn't, and it showed on his face. "It's okay my friend. Take the meal and eat, you need it. And you need to get going!"

George was confused. "Going where?" He said. "Across the city!" The old man shouted as he pointed down the street before disappearing back into the cafe.

Curious now, George moved more quickly. He ate as he walked, still not quite knowing where he was going. Stopping at a street corner a traffic cop waved at him. Georges instinct was to turn and hide until he saw the scrap of paper in the cops hand. He pointed George down the street even further and smiled at him. As he walked, a tall glass building came into view. More people kept directing him along the way until he was sure they were leading him right to it until finally he arrived.

A tall, bearded, young man wearing a suit, stood at the entrance to the building. The street was lined with people all watching George. They smiled at him, some clapped and cheered, some cried as George passed them. The tall man held out his hands as if to present the entire building as a gift to George. "It's so good to see you." The man said as he took Georges hand in a firm handshake. "Do you know me?" George squeaked as he began to cry. "No, but I can't wait to get to know you." The man replied. George turned around to face the people as the man continued. "On behalf of the City Alzheimer's Foundation and your many many friends who love you, we present to you these keys to your own apartment. Fully paid for ten years as well as in-home care services donated from partner organizations."

George looked out over the crowd, silent, welling with love and gratitude as each of them held out their little scraps of paper.

"And of course there's one last thing for you George. This check for $20,000."