“I’m No Saint” - Story by Guest Writer Sharon Jensen Zlotnik

Homeless people are a fixture of life in a big city. Los Angles has been given the shameful honor of being Homeless Capital of USA, with about 73,000 homeless people in the larger metropolitan area, 10,000 of those are minors.

Two encounters I had with two people this year - who may or may not have been counted in the “homeless stats” - stand out in my memory.

I got off the bus at Westwood Village and walked towards the beautiful UCLA campus. A woman was standing on the sidewalk, holding a sign, and crying. Everyone passed her by. I kept walking at first, then turned around and observed her. A white lady, maybe 50, maybe 40, blonde ponytail, sun burned face. I went into a cafe and bought a juice, a yogurt and a bread item. When I handed her the lunch bag, she stopped crying, like a child whose parent has picked her up with a soothing “there, there now, it’s all right”. She thanked me and looked at me as if I were Mother Theresa. I said “you’re welcome – enjoy the food” and continued on my way. I never saw her again.

I met Ricky while waiting to catch the train towards Koreatown from the Wilshire/Vermont subway station. He was in a wheelchair, his left leg missing above the knee, a paper cup in his lap. He held it out. I politely said no and managed a tired smile. He smiled back and said “God Bless you”. A few people gave him some coins. I walked over and gave him a Dollar, then offered him a cookie from a bag. He took one, thanked me and ate it slowly. I asked him about his leg and I could tell he appreciated that I didn’t avoid the subject.

In 1985, he was 24 and walking home one night in Highland Park., just north of downtown. A drunk driver did a hit-and-run and the doctors had to amputate Ricky’s leg. The cops found the driver, a 16 year-old boy; for some reason the kid was sent home to his mom with only a slap on the wrist. I wondered why Ricky had not turned into a bitter man. “Things happen”, he said and shrugged. I looked at his brown, leathery face and saw no trace of anger. He sleeps in shelters or on the street. His disability was cut recently; I don’t recall why. What I do remember is that he was lucid, respectful, a good listener and talker, with a genuine, warm smile. I wanted to continue our conversation, but his train to Hollywood pulled into the station. We shook hands and he expertly navigated his two-wheeled home across the platform and onto the Red Line car packed with rush-hour crowds.

I spotted Ricky a few weeks later on the corner of Hollywood and Vine, while I was on my cell phone. He didn’t see me and I was going to say hello, but he was already out of ear shot, wheeling towards the subway station. That was the last time I saw him.

I confess I sometimes get annoyed, avert my eyes, hold my breath when a man has pissed in his pants, and get a little nervous when a woman is yelling. But every now and then I meet someone like the Crying Lady or like Ricky and I snap out of my Urban Survival Robot Mode and interact with a human being who for some reason is down on their luck and could use a bite to eat and some conversation. Maybe they made some wrong choices, or maybe they were hit by a car; at that moment it doesn’t really matter.

I’m no saint. I don’t have to be; I just have to give a shit every now and then.

*Photo by Franco Folini via Flickr

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