CarrollBlog

The broken guys, the sleazy creeps, the lost, the haunted, the aimless. The ones who lived like you and me once but for a million reasons left planet normal and now exist in an almost-touching parallel universe with its own gravity and color spectrum. Have you got a dollar, a dime, a cigarette, a light, a heart to help me--they ask. A hat in their lap, some of them stare at you with an extraordinary mixture of hatred and help me in their eyes. The ones on the sidewalk or in a corner of the bustling railroad station. Crouched with a hand out and their heads down, unable or unwilling to look at the world. Shakily handwritten cardboard signs on the ground in front of them. "My heart is broken. I am homeless. Will work for food." You glance at them for a moment, maybe two. Sometimes you reach into a pocket for spare change. If they look scary or dangerous, you pick up your pace. Now and then it's a woman. Often overweight and strangely sexless, sometimes it takes a moment to even realize it *is* a woman. Alone, these people look sullen or despondent. But when a bunch of them are standing together, they are often happy and exuberant. The mood is festive. Some of them are drunk but some not. They just seem happy being part of a group. For the moment they are among people who listen to them, people who look at them without disapproval and distrust. There is often a confidence in their eyes then. They look at you like who's the fool now-- me or you?