I first met my homeless man back in the 1990s. I was getting into the swing of a summer job and was outside the store hanging items on the display rack as I’d been shown. I had just finished carefully twisting the ends of a rather stiff piece of wire around two nails- placed some distance apart. He strode purposefully up to me and cautioned that I might be electrocuted. He undid one end of the wire which I’d twisted around the nail.  I eyed him cautiously before redoing the contraption.  He undid it again; once again expressing his concern. We continued like that for a while.

While working in the city, I would become familiar with the sight, scents and sounds of others like him roaming the area. But, he stood out clearly in my mind.  Soon, I began imagining I could tell the scent of his often unwashed body apart from the others. He would often stop at the store asking for money and listening patiently as the other women admonished him to take frequenter baths or not spend their hard earn cash on anything silly like drugs.

Sometimes, they would bring him clothing. They would express concern about the rubber bands wrapped around his fingers so tightly.  He would call them all “girlfriend” as he promised to do better. He had an accent; years later he would tell me he’d live in the U.S. Virgin Islands for a bit.  He had a fine singing voice too. Sometimes, I would spot him strutting down Market Street singing bars of some reggae tune.

Years later, when I approached him as a hard news writer for his story, he looked me dead in the eyes and offering his sympathies that my breed (reporters) didn’t get any respect in this island- Antigua.  For the second time around, he was concerned about me! At the time I was amused. Later, I became thoughtful. Years later, I was humbled that he, as unfortunate as his circumstances were, took to caring about my situation.  He took me seriously.

So, maybe that was what my fervent search for him was all about. He- considered crazy- still had in him (and probably never lost it) the ability to take others seriously.  Who was I then and others in the journalism trade to dehumanize my subject(s)?  What was our excuse?

The weeks went by and I had nothing on my homeless man- other than conjecture. People kept advising that I check the “Crazy House” since he was known for spending periods there.  I checked. I don’t recall what I was told.  I just know it was an awkward and revealing conversation. After all those years and after having repeated conversations with him, it seems I’d not inquired after his name. I’d not taken him seriously enough to do that one simple thing. I’d gone up to this man, shook his hand, told him my name and never asked his. And even if I did, or if he’d volunteered his name- obviously, I’d forgotten it.

Maybe, it was that realization which pushed me to go ahead with the story while still searching for him.  I wrote the story- it was called “The Other Antiguans- Part I”. It spoke of my strange relationship with this lesser fortunate man and the ways in which Antiguan politicians and society had failed him and others like him.  And, to this day, it remains one of the most honest and unselfish stories I’ve ever written.

Coming Next Tuesday: When A Working Girl Gets Inspired