homeless men have messages, too

by Janna Lopez

I’m sitting in a leather chair. Ginger blossom tea simmers in a stone-gray pot. It’a a Thursday morning and I woke up holding melancholy. Maybe it’s in the alignment of stars, a ravaged barn fire of democracy, or maybe I’m just missing my dead mom. My friend Michael arrives and sits beside me. We talk. He shares about his work, I share about my work. Our eyes stay mutually fixed. The genuinely-connected moment is nice. As we switch unavoidable conversation gears so many wish they didn’t need to or have to, we enter our views on the world. These days, “the world” is an all-encompassing catchphrase standing in for our current political whiplash. I express beliefs about living in an age of accepted cruelty. Michael offers, everyone’s not really like that it’s just that those others are louder. I take comfort in his always-hopeful view. Walking over to us is a young man with honey-colored skin, somewhat tattered clothes, and shoulder-length tangled brown hair. There are two chairs across from our table so I think nothing of it until he sits down right across from me and starts mumbling. I look back at him, awkwardly say hello, as an attempt to acknowledge his humanness. His mumbling rolls into some form of a chant. I look at Michael and he’s waiting for what’s next as much as I am. I turn back to the young man and his eyes are staring directly at me as his chant becomes louder, more pronounced and rhythmic. I don’t recognize the language of words although what rolls out of his mouth reminds me of Sanskrit or something Arabic or Hindu. He’s completely fixed on me, and I’m wondering if I’m in the presence of danger or delusion. Instinctively, I grab my phone that rests on the table in case the danger’s moderate and he somehow miraculously has mental bandwidth to snag it and run. But his eyes are fixed on me—which makes me wholly uncomfortable and vulnerable—as he continues chanting some strange harmonic melody. A worker senses some disturbance and comes from behind the counter carrying a to-go coffee cup. She tries to offer it to him. He ignores the offering and chants at me. She says, here you go, you take this to go, I told you I’d give you coffee so you can leave now. He still sings, oblivious to the offer. Michael and I remain still. Given I’ve never had a homeless man chant at me before I have no idea what I should be doing or worrying about. I’m spooked yet wonder what it is he’s trying to tell me. Was he waiting to find me? Is he singing a prayer? A curse? A warning? A blessing? The cashier comes over again, this time, holding a plastic-wrapped muffin. She extends the muffin to him at eye level. Here. Take this muffin, too. After the muffin distraction thaws the frozen moment between the homeless man, his fixated eyes on me, and an echo of his invocation dissipates, the surreal spell is broken. He reaches for the muffin and is swiftly escorted outside by the cashier. Questions about messages versus mayhem, luck over loss, randomness versus destiny, those who have and those who don’t, sanity or mystery—and what significance I might harvest from this encounter—reverberate…