Open Letter

Dear Homeless Man on 200 East,

I'm sorry. I'm sorry we took over your living room the other night. My kids and I just wanted a good spot for the Days of '47 parade, and I've always wondered what an urban campout would be like -- the allure of that particular "adventure" is probably somewhat lost on you. Which I don't mean disrespectfully, I promise.

You didn't ask me for money, which I appreciate. Not because the asking would have upset me, but rather because I didn't have anything to give you. Surely you heard my children's pleas for ice cream from that genius ice cream truck driver who slowly rolled up and down 200 East all evening, late into the night. I didn't carry any cash out of fear and, as it turns out, I needn't have worried. There were enough police there to defend a small city. Which was precisely the point, wasn't it?

I saw you laughing at us, as we rolled out our sleeping bags and puffed up our (my) air mattress on the little patch of scrabbly grass in the park strip. I mistakenly assumed it was the laugh of a crazy streetperson, but lo and behold, I was disabused of that notion at 3 a.m., on the dot, when the sprinklers sputtered to life, waking us all and soaking us in a matter of seconds. I could only assume you were asleep, curled up next to that building, but I swore I saw you smirk. That's ok, I deserved it, really.

Speaking of deserving things, I wouldn't have minded so much if you'd asked one of your less-civilized buddies to shiv that ridiculous girl with that flapper-clapper thing. Seriously. I know you were as irritated as everyone else on the block when she insisted upon flap-flap-flapping that blasted thing until 2 a.m. You'll be happy to know she didn't do it at all before the parade. Her brother did. Later that morning, when you said, "Hello, ma'am," as you walked past, I thought we shared a moment. As I struggled awake, crammed on that air mattress with all four of my children, I swear you were watching us protectively, as though you were making sure we were ok before you fled to parade-less regions of the city. I very nearly invited you to share our blanket and watch the festivities; I was even going to buy you a McMuffin. However, I lost my nerve and just said, "Hello, sir," as kindly as I could, because I genuinely hope that whatever misfortune has brought you to your current address of 200 South and 200 East is only temporary. I feel a strange connection with you, Mr. 200 East, because I slept quite nicely in your living room, with the exception of the 3 a.m. shower. If you're still there next year, let's make a deal. You show me where we can sleep without getting soaked and breakfast is totally on me.

Sincerely,

Woman with All Those Kids