The Starbucks guy

I was in Denver this last weekend, and had a few hours to kill, so I went to Starbucks. I know, pretty depraved.

I sat there drinking my $567 mocha latte frapaccino thingy and began smelling the rankest smell. It was a mildewy BO smell that I thought was coming from a week old coffee spill someone had forgotten to clean up, but as I got my head out of my computer and looked around, I quickly saw where the origin was. Two tables away sat a homeless guy.

He was tall and probably good looking under the scruffy beard and unkempt hair. His stock of worldly belongings sat opposite him on the chair across the table, and every bit of his clothing had that greasy, hadn't-been-washed-in-months look to it. He sat staring as if he was carrying on a conversation with someone. His face often contorting into an expression as if someone who he cared about had just shared something awful with him. Whatever it was he was doing, it consumed him. He had no awareness of any one else in the room.

I watched him for a long time. I could feel a deep pain for him as he looked very trapped in a one sided conversation that only he could hear. I wanted to reach out to him, but what could I do? I didn't have any money. As I reviewed my own finances, I realized the sobering truth that I wasn't very far from joining him. I knew that if there weren't a few key people in my life propping up my world, I would be homeless too. I wanted to make a difference for the guy, but reality told me the way the path would go.

I had worked for 2 years with guys just like the Starbucks guy. They were usually severely mentally ill - the kind that were barely alive even after they were taking their medications. The best life got for them was a low grade existence. I knew from hundreds of hours of trying to bring people like him back to reality that it was mostly impossible. The best he would get would be a little more tolerable to be around - washed up, groomed, numbed with medication, and harmless. I knew he would never be fully alive. It broke my heart to realize I was powerless. Handing him $20 wouldn't have done anything, even if I had it to give. Taking him home with me and cleaning him up and feeding him and putting him to work shoveling snow off my roof wouldn't have given him any life that he could actually take in. Like the layer of greasy dirt on his clothing, there was a profound glaze on his life that I knew I couldn't wash away with any amount of detergent. I felt sad and powerless.

So I sat and watched him, and I hurt. I ached for his illness and the emptiness he lived in. I felt ashamed that although my bank account was pretty depleted, I had so much compared to him. I had my mind, my presence, my wits about me. I was sane and in my right mind. How I longed to speak to the demons that held him captive, but knew I had no magic words.

Seeing the Starbucks guy made me want to live, because I knew he couldn't.