26.2

Polluted, disheveled hair, exhaust dis-coloring his face, the soot in his nails thick from clinging to his unrelenting past. Ingesting fumes from the only constant he knows, now, his corner. His shirt reads 26.2, finisher. Yet he didn’t cross that finish line, earning a time, recorded unconsciously on a micro-chip. Hand-me-down triumphs of races glorifying determination. Perhaps his mind trickles with thoughts of a moment he might have cared about such accomplishments.


The shirt on his back is hardly a trophy of glory, instead a red cloth to hang from his square, gaunt shoulders. He may have told her that he loved her when he had the chance. Yet, happenstance, lead him to this block, with this sign: “hungry and homeless”, nevermind the loneliness of dropping out of existence. Lacking persistence or the wherewithal to hang on, not withdraw from life’s marathon, or the rat race to stay on pace with what it is we should all be running from. Or towards, like they have us thinking, where several of us are on the brink of, just that, dropping out. Where goals are confused with ladders and raises and steps and benefits. We get locked into being comfortable because the discomfort of being a drop-out, sends fear slithering down our spines, where we can taste the disappointment or resentment oozing from the pours of those around us that just don’t understand.

Our man on the corner had some courage, or just no choice? Did he lose his voice on what he wanted to be when he grew up? Did he trade his passion for a bottle filled with empty promises? How do you really get to a place where offering nothing more than an eye sore is your perpetual daily existence? A waste of space, to take the place of a life full of smiles and laughter and authentic tears that remind you of all that truly matters.

Had he said “I love you” and taken the opportunity to be a dad, he might be in a better situation. Instead embarrassing his daughter, his family, to shame, leaving her to blame herself because he wasn’t man enough to step up to the plate. Batting for her was never his forte’, but he had extra innings to tie the score and couldn’t even do it.

If it wasn’t the bottle it was failure, regret and greed that stood in his way. Never feeling like he was the man he’d imagined, so he couldn’t establish something he wouldn’t live up to. No fortitude to deny his own disease to please anyone but himself. Now misplaced, alone, vulnerable…exiled from a past that he lost with all his possessions.

For us, he’s a representation of what we could be. A hero we envy or a zero disgusting us, to lose our appetite. We feel sorry for his circumstances and can’t help but glance in his direction as we drive by creating stories around his sign and demeanor, wondering what it truly was that got him there. We sometimes give a dollar, but not without pondering whether the proceeds will be spent on just another fix. When we don’t give, we have parables of jesus haunting us as we drive past. And we argue back, “well, thy neighbor should get a job!, or at least kick the habits that keep him bound to these tricks.”

We’ve lost trust in his sincerity cuz we can’t see honesty in eyes dark and dull, sunken deep with charcoal. No sparkle to reflect memories of a life more human, more digestible. Delusional to suppress the, him in all of us, the drop out, the lost, the lonely. The carefree or the care-less. Where 26.2 means nothing, and determination isn’t trendy, it’s breaking away from safety, and sitting on your own corner with your own sign, begging for forgiveness, shaking a cup full of change, cuz isn’t that what we all need. If not change of position, change of vision, change of perception, or change of emotion. Change worth making, if not for a dollar, for each regret, ignored, stepped over, left, hardened on the pavement.