I haven't seen Mike in a month. I used to see him every day. I think he's dead.
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I first saw Mike back in Fall of 2008. Truth be told, he was pretty damn hard to miss. I had just started law school, and I got off the Red Line at Union Station every day. Mike would be standing outside, near the row of newspaper boxes, a five-eight black man with white hair, always talking to nobody in particular. At the time, my friends and I referred to him as "Talking Tommy"--just another homeless schizophrenic on the streets of our nation's capital.
It was almost a year later when he asked me for a cigarette, and a little past that when I finally met Michael Abbott.
I don't smoke (not anymore): my mother is currently battling advanced lung cancer, and I haven't had a cigarette since the diagnosis. But I do sometimes have a lighter with me (old Eagle Scout habit). One day last summer "Talking Tommy" was standing by the newspaper racks with an unlit cigarette between his lips, muttering to the ether. As I walked past, I slapped a lighter down on the Washington Post machine near to where he was leaning. I kept walking wordlessly until I reached the Metro escalators.
A few weeks later as I was passing by, he asked me if I had a cigarette. In hindsight, that was the first time I had ever seen him talk to an actual person, and it just so happened to be me. I told him I was sorry, but no, I didn't smoke. He laughed and said, "don't be sorry, it's a terrible habit!" I smiled and began to walk away.
About four steps later I turned around. "I see you here every day, and I feel like I should introduce myself. I'm JR," I said, holding out my hand. He took it and smiled, and simply said "Mike."
"Nice to meet you, Mike."
"You too."
I walked to the Metro.
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I began to say hello to Mike every day, and ask him how he was doing. He would tell me about getting kicked in the head the night before, sleeping on the street, looking for food, suffering from a truly hideous skin condition that caused his legs to look like he had a perpetual case of sunburn...whatever was on his mind. We would spend a few moments each day talking about what was going on in our lives, and then we'd go our separate ways. Sometimes Mike would ask for some "walking around money" and I'd give him a $20. Once he was very weak and hoarse, and said he "wasn't doing so good," so I bought him some sandwiches and juice in Union Station and put a $20 in the bag with the food.
One day, as I was leaving work, getting ready to head home a few hours before my wife was supposed to finish at her job, Mike told me he hadn't eaten all day. I asked him if he was still allowed in Union Station (a lot of the homeless people in that area have been banned from entering), and he told me he was. So I offered to buy him dinner.
We went to Panda's Rice Bowl, a Chinese stall in the food court. I think he got chicken and broccoli, and I got a tofu bowl, and we sat at a small table and ate.
That was when I learned his full name: Michael Abbott. As ordinary as Joe Smith.
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I should mention that Mike was clearly mentally ill, though he seemed remarkably lucid in describing his experiences to me.
His story, as I learned over dinner, was that he waited outside Union Station every day for a check he thought was coming, because (he said) he won a civil rights lawsuit against a local car dealership decades before, and that was where they told him they'd deliver his judgment. And so every day for more than a decade, he stood outside one of the grandest train stations in the country, ranting to (as I learned that evening) the closed-circuit cameras set up in the area about the injustices done to him, waiting for a measure of justice that would obviously never arrive.
He told me that the guy who owed him after all these years was the founder of Sheehy Automotive, a major dealership in the DC area. "He's a Jew, you know," Mike said, looking at me sideways. That sentence was a bit of a blow: I'm Jewish, after all, and I just bought the man dinner! I told him so, and he seemed a bit contrite afterwards, but in hindsight I think that offhand comment from Mike probably strained our relationship more than his mental illness.
I changed the subject, and asked Mike why he would spend all day outside Union Station, waiting for a payday that was never going to come. Obviously, I was approaching an irrational neurosis in a rational way, which is never a particularly good idea. Mike said that he was simply waiting on justice, and that "you shouldn't worry about waiting for justice." He seemed earnest, if irrational.
I shrugged and went back to my tofu.
---
After that awkward dinner between the privileged law student and the homeless man with peeling skin, I didn't really go out of my way to see Mike. In fact, I was always somewhat hasty in getting away from him. Suddenly it became more important for me to get to class right away, leaving no time to chat. I would still slip him some cash anytime he asked, but I limited the opportunities for him to ask. I was just uncomfortable being around him, once I knew that he was completely past rationality and had a touch of anti-semitism in him. So I made excuses to avoid him--I exited the Metro from another doorway, which took me across the street further from the newspaper racks, I got my newspapers at machines a few blocks away from the station, I rushed off when we'd run into each other after perfunctory greetings. I couldn't ignore him like so many around me did, but I certainly tried my best considering I was on a first-name basis with him.
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About a month and a half ago I was heading back to Union Station after a long day of classes. It was already dark outside, so the red flashing lights atop the ambulance stood starkly against the night. It was parked in the traffic circle just next to the newspapers, right where Mike used to stand. It was late, and I had a subway to catch, so I didn't go over to investigate.
I haven't seen him since.
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The other day it was below freezing in the District, and as I walked to school I decided to count the homeless people I saw. I put the number at eight--seven men and one woman. They were all black, all shivering, all sitting across the street from where Mike used to stand vigil. They smelled bad. Not one had a proper coat. Not one looked well-fed. They all had vacant stares, and none of them so much as looked up at me, let alone ask me for money.
I would have given them some, I swear.
[UPDATE 2:27 a.m.] - a couple of ways to help the DC homeless. First, one of the best resources for the DC homeless community is Street Sense, a newspaper written and distributed by the homeless of the District. They rely on individual donors to keep afloat, and this is one print newspaper worth having around.
Also, if you can, please send some fiscal love to the National Coalition for the Homeless. They focus heavily in the DC area, using the problems in the capital to highlight the plight of the homeless around America. Anything you can do to help would be greatly appreciated.
[UPDATE 3:15 p.m.] I want to call attention to some really great personal stories about homelessness and working with the homeless that have been posted in the comments. Please take a minute to read some thoughts from wishingwell, AllisonInSeattle, joynow, yuriwho, rebeldream, KateCrashes, cartwrightdale, stevie avebury, africa, allie123...hell, just read the whole thread.
There are some really amazing people in this community, and I hope that as we continue our never-ending infighting over big-picture policies, we remember to keep in mind the little pictures that form our grand mosaic. Thanks, guys. -JR