I’ll call him John.

He lives in a doorway near Chum, which is apparently where he obtains enough nutrients to survive. If John is not in his doorway, he’s usually circling the neighborhood yelling at the invisible people who are yelling at him. They must be saying terrible things, because he is always telling them how it is they who are the worthless fucking motherfuckers, not him.

I moved downtown in June into a lovely loft, ensconced with a view of the lake and South Shore. I can’t hear John yelling from my loft. But there is a parade of young opiate addicts transiting the alley. They gather in a small alcove, then move onward into the night. Or day. They shuffle, shoulder-to-shoulder, to their next fix.

Fix. Apt.

For furnishings, John has a tarp and some cardboard. He wore the same clothes for a month and his beard was quite long. Apparently, Chum gave him new clothes – a too-small sweater, un-ripped khakis. And he shaved. His tarp disappeared, but he found a new one. He’s there most of the day, staring into the voices as the sun burns his forehead. Or he’s curled in the corner of his doorway sleeping. Or trying.

I wonder about his family. Does he have siblings? Parents? Certainly Chum and other social services are aware of him. I wonder where he came from, how he arrived at his doorway, who’s going to help him.

I think about bringing him food. But that’s not going to help him.

I think about giving him money. But that’s not going to help him.

I think about him a lot.