Day 191: People Watching

The library intrigues me.  So many types of people wander in and out the electric sliding door.  I watch them come and go when I sit in the atrium.  About ninety-nine percent of the time, a homeless person hangs out at a table.  Sometimes I become uncomfortable with the hard core types.  Yesterday, I watched one of about five that meandered around the area.

He wore mismatched uniform parts.  I get annoyed with people who wear the uniform incorrectly and for everyday living.  I believe the uniform should be a sign of respect.  I do take exception with the homeless.  When I see them, I imagine they suffer with PTSD.  This man looked old, Vietnam era.  However, as I grow older, some of the Iraqi vets are looking old as well.  He wore the duty coat of the computer camouflage era and trousers from the time I first enlisted in 1990.  On the back of the coat, the words "Got Jesus, Jesus is Lord" were written in black ink.  To finish his outfit, he wore a plain grey t-shirt, boots, ball cap, and a camouflaged stocking cap over the top.

When I first arrived, a couple of tables were being used.  Shortly, I found myself alone with him.  At this point, he didn't sit still.  Half his items he moved to a big round table: three packages of cup of noodle soup that had been damaged in his army green duffle bag, three books, a magazine, and a silver drinking cup.  He place a cup of soup on the magazine with a book on the top of the cup.  With a pocket knife, he began cutting up a roast beef sandwich that materialized from the duffle. 

At this point, I wondered about his condition.  How bad was his PTSD?  Or maybe this wasn't his diagnosis, but instead he had a different mental illness.  I thought of the knife.  What would push him to a point he would wield it against another.  I feel guilty thinking of these things, very uncharitable.  But in my defense, I am a writer, and I was thinking of my next novel and how I might use a character like him in the story.  Not once did I feel threatened by him.

While the soup cooked, he smoked a pipe outside, walking up and down the sidewalk.  He came back into the building to sit down with his soup.  The liquid spilled onto the magazine.  I would have panicked.  He didn't.  Casually, he took the bread from his sandwich, mopping up the broth and plopping it in his mouth.  I never saw him eat the rest of the sandwich or the soup.

Two of his friends joined him right before I began packing up to leave.  One of them was very stinky, but he left after a few moments.  I had thought to chat with him when I left, but he was busy with a friend.  Fleetingly, I considered handing him some cash, but he wasn't asking for any, and I didn't want to be disrespectful.  What would Jesus do?  Alas, I am not Jesus.  I do what Lisa does.  I watch, contemplate, and consider.  That is how I am with all the people I come across because I tend to be an introvert.  Oh, and I let my imagination run a little wild when thinking of stories.