The man sitting in this doorway gets to this point by 1:30 every day. He sits for a bit before continuing his pleading for food. I mean for you to understand this sound: pleading from a hunger that echoes inside of him, amplifying his desperation.
I do not know where he starts, but his pace is somewhere between leaden and plodding. I have seen him a block up, as early as noon, trying to get across the monstrous expressway that is Ninos Heroes.
Some days I give him an apple or some grapes. He cannot see well, so I put it in his hand while naming what it is.
The other day Mari caught me heading out the door with two hardboiled eggs and a banana. I gave them to the man, describing the offering: un platano y dos huevos duros/cocidos.
The man, bewildered by the cold eggs in his hand, thought maybe this was a trick, that someone wanted to see him get egg all over himself. He asked, if they are they are hard-boiled, why are they cold. I promised they’d just been in the refrigerator.
When I scrambled back in the door to enjoy my own lunch, Mari asked what I did with the food. I told her I was sharing with the man who walks by every day. She exclaimed, “Oh, that poor man; isn’t he someone’s grandfather? Shouldn’t someone be taking care of him?”
shewhodaresnothing 