Oranges Don’t Cure Cancer
As I rounded the corner back towards home from my dogs’ walk, my dogs and I encountered a homeless man struggling to sit down on the sidewalk next to a clothing donation box. He was clearly exhausted. I’ve come to know the local homeless people in my neighborhood from over the years, and for the most part, they have been unthreatening and upheld interesting conversations with me. I’ve known many of them by their names, but this man was new to me. Not knowing anything about him, I smiled, said hello and kept my dogs and me on our way. However, my rescued doxy/chihuahua mix, Dixie, had other plans. She dug in refusing to walk and began pulling towards the homeless man, now propped up against the donation box, his legs stretched out in front of him. Dixie began to whine and was adamant about making contact with this man.
Since her rescue, Dixie has proven to be an extraordinary dog. Her energy has a calming effect on other dogs and she has yet to meet another she couldn’t win over. She is also incredibly friendly and insists on meeting everyone in her path (our walks sometimes take forever because of it) and will climb into anyone’s lap who happens to be sitting down when our paths cross. Very much like she was doing at this moment. Her claws scrapped the sidewalk as she fought to backtrack towards this man. He watched her with the same caution I watched him.
“Hi. Her name is Dixie. She really really wants to say hi to you. Is that okay?”
He looked at me almost surprised I was speaking to him. He nodded and I gave Dixie some slack. She immediately, tail vigorously wagging, climbed into his lap. He looked at her puzzled as she got comfortable and stable. She looked up into his face with her big brown eyes. He cracked a little smile and put a gentle hand on her back.
“She seems to like you, a lot.” The other two dogs paid no attention to the man.
“I think she knows I’m dying.”
It was an odd thing for him to say and yet I found myself engaging him. “From what?”
“Cancer. They kicked me out of the hospital a few days ago.” His eyes were sky blue, intense, urgent, memorable.
I’ve heard this before, I’ve seen this before, and it’s frustrating and heartbreaking. Thousands and thousands of people on the streets of Los Angeles, homeless, mentally ill, drug addicted, terminal without resources or help of any kind. Dying on the streets is a reality for so many people. “Can I call anyone for you?”
“How can you help me? I have cancer.” He answered on autopilot, assuming he’s disclosed having cancer to other people getting the ‘what can I do’ impulse response.
I learned a long time ago there’s nothing I’m capable of doing to help so I offer what I can do. “That’s not what I asked. I asked if there was someone I could call. A family member? The hospital?”
He looked down at Dixie who was still happily perched on his lap. “No, there’s no one to call.” He gave her a gentle stroke down her back and I tugged on the leash, prompting her to come towards me.
“I’m very sorry this has happened to you,” I said sincerely and left it at that. Anything else would come across condescending and I continued on my way with my dogs.
I was angry and saddened that this was the life for so many people. I was pissed to know that the city of Los Angeles has over 40,000 empty buildings that could easily be turned into low-income housing or shelters and yet nothing has been done to help those that need help the most. It burned me when I learned that the state of California has had 2 billion dollars earmarked for homeless housing for the past two years and not a dime has been spent. Fuck fuck fuck. I couldn’t stop thinking about the homeless man on the rest of my walk. When I got home, I grabbed my last two oranges off the kitchen counter, a bottle of water and two red velvet dessert bars and threw them in a small plastic bag. I headed back out the door.
The homeless man was in the same position as when I left him. “Hi,” I said. “What’s your name?”
He glanced at me and eyed the bag in my hand. “John.”
“I want to give this to you, it’s not much, just what I had.”
John struggled to get up; I did my best to help him to his feet. When he finally stood, I was taken aback by how tall he was. At 5’10 he had a good six inches over me and seemed rather solid while on the sidewalk he looked crumpled and deceivingly frail. I caught a whiff of him. He didn’t smell like alcohol or body odor or even cigarette smoke like one would expect. It was mild but it was clear, it was decay.
John took inventory of the bag’s contents. “This won’t cure cancer.” His tone, almost offended, perhaps disappointed that it wasn’t some cure-all in a bag.
John nodded. “Thank you.” For whatever reason, he felt he needed to move on after our encounter. I watched him walk down the block staying close to the buildings, slightly limping. It was the first and only time I saw him.