Wednesday, September 22, 2004
I feared that something was wrong when my Starbucks Friend wasn't in his usual place last week, resting against the wall, head slightly down. By Friday, I thought maybe he'd moved on, down the street perhaps, to another coffeeshop or cafe or drugstore, finding a new place to rest.
But this morning, as I prepared to enter the shop for my daily dose of chai, I saw it: Three red candles, already burned nearly completely down, the wax sticking to the brick sidewalk. And a sign reading: IN MEMORY OF JAMES.
So his name was James, I thought. I'd always wondered whether I'd heard him right. He had a tendency to mumble, to avoid my gaze, in those first few weeks that we knew each other, those first few weeks of my life in Alexandria. Through the subsequent months, I began to appreciate our daily visits, began to look forward to seeing him each day, clad in a camoflauge jacket, dreadlocks hanging down past his shoulders. Though I didn't know much at all about him, I began to feel a strange sense of closeness, of kindredness -- though our lives couldn't have been more different and though I saw him for only about 15 minutes each day.
I suppose that's why, this morning when I learned of his death, when I realized my fears last week had carried with them a severe truth, I felt a hollow, deep sadness, one that has stayed with me all day, lingering in my mind throughout my hours at work and on into the evening. This morning, I realized I'd lost someone I cared about, thought about, worried about during thunderstorms and chilly nights and weekends.
As I walked away from Starbucks this morning after learning from one of the cashiers that James fell victim to a heart attack last week, my heart ached, and my mind reeled with questions. Did he have a family? What circumstances led him down his particular path in life? Did he have friends? Someone to talk to in the darkness of night? Did he have a job of some sort? A girlfriend? Who would be there to miss him? Who would miss James?
I went into my office building thinking about that the most. When a homeless man dies, with no known family or next of kin, with few friends, who grieves? Who is there to memorialize him, to say, "James was here, and he left a mark, he had an impact in this world"? Who thinks of him come Christmastime, wishing he were there at the dinner table? Who remembers his birthday, years later? Who remembers him?
These thoughts, these questions, ran through my head all morning as I wrote headlines, edited stories, worked on Web pages, guzzled coffee. They remained on my mind as I began my walk to the post office two blocks down, past the Starbucks, past the McDonald's where James sometimes had breakfast. But as I passed the coffeehouse, I noticed a interesting sight: Someone had added to James' memorial. The candles had long burned out, but the piece of paper was still sitting upright against the wall, and two new items had been added -- a small cup of coffee and a cookie in a bag. Someone remembered. James loved his coffee with four packets of sugar and, when he did take his breakfast there, ate a cookie that was bought for him by one of the many businesspeople who streamed in and out each morning. One of them had taken the time to remember him.
It will be very hard to walk near, and into, that Starbucks now that James isn't there. Each time I do, I'll think of him, recall his thin, tall figure sitting quietly outside the door, never begging for handouts, never reaching out to anyone who didn't reach out to him first. I'll picture him leaning against the brick wall, smoking the occasional cigarette and sipping his coffee, leaving by midmorning to venture off to who knows where. I'm sure that, for at least a while, I'll still expect to see him there, expect to be able to greet him, talk to him for a bit, find out how things are going by the light in his eyes, by whether there's a slight smile on his lips or not.
But at least he will be remembered. And that gives me a great sense of relief. The additions to his memorial this afternoon have illustrated that James made a lasting impact on businesspeople, Starbucks baristas, maybe even regular passersby -- and that people are thinking of him, remembering him, even after he has gone.
I'll remember him, too.
God bless you, James.
But this morning, as I prepared to enter the shop for my daily dose of chai, I saw it: Three red candles, already burned nearly completely down, the wax sticking to the brick sidewalk. And a sign reading: IN MEMORY OF JAMES.
So his name was James, I thought. I'd always wondered whether I'd heard him right. He had a tendency to mumble, to avoid my gaze, in those first few weeks that we knew each other, those first few weeks of my life in Alexandria. Through the subsequent months, I began to appreciate our daily visits, began to look forward to seeing him each day, clad in a camoflauge jacket, dreadlocks hanging down past his shoulders. Though I didn't know much at all about him, I began to feel a strange sense of closeness, of kindredness -- though our lives couldn't have been more different and though I saw him for only about 15 minutes each day.
I suppose that's why, this morning when I learned of his death, when I realized my fears last week had carried with them a severe truth, I felt a hollow, deep sadness, one that has stayed with me all day, lingering in my mind throughout my hours at work and on into the evening. This morning, I realized I'd lost someone I cared about, thought about, worried about during thunderstorms and chilly nights and weekends.
As I walked away from Starbucks this morning after learning from one of the cashiers that James fell victim to a heart attack last week, my heart ached, and my mind reeled with questions. Did he have a family? What circumstances led him down his particular path in life? Did he have friends? Someone to talk to in the darkness of night? Did he have a job of some sort? A girlfriend? Who would be there to miss him? Who would miss James?
I went into my office building thinking about that the most. When a homeless man dies, with no known family or next of kin, with few friends, who grieves? Who is there to memorialize him, to say, "James was here, and he left a mark, he had an impact in this world"? Who thinks of him come Christmastime, wishing he were there at the dinner table? Who remembers his birthday, years later? Who remembers him?
These thoughts, these questions, ran through my head all morning as I wrote headlines, edited stories, worked on Web pages, guzzled coffee. They remained on my mind as I began my walk to the post office two blocks down, past the Starbucks, past the McDonald's where James sometimes had breakfast. But as I passed the coffeehouse, I noticed a interesting sight: Someone had added to James' memorial. The candles had long burned out, but the piece of paper was still sitting upright against the wall, and two new items had been added -- a small cup of coffee and a cookie in a bag. Someone remembered. James loved his coffee with four packets of sugar and, when he did take his breakfast there, ate a cookie that was bought for him by one of the many businesspeople who streamed in and out each morning. One of them had taken the time to remember him.
It will be very hard to walk near, and into, that Starbucks now that James isn't there. Each time I do, I'll think of him, recall his thin, tall figure sitting quietly outside the door, never begging for handouts, never reaching out to anyone who didn't reach out to him first. I'll picture him leaning against the brick wall, smoking the occasional cigarette and sipping his coffee, leaving by midmorning to venture off to who knows where. I'm sure that, for at least a while, I'll still expect to see him there, expect to be able to greet him, talk to him for a bit, find out how things are going by the light in his eyes, by whether there's a slight smile on his lips or not.
But at least he will be remembered. And that gives me a great sense of relief. The additions to his memorial this afternoon have illustrated that James made a lasting impact on businesspeople, Starbucks baristas, maybe even regular passersby -- and that people are thinking of him, remembering him, even after he has gone.
I'll remember him, too.
God bless you, James.
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