After ordering my drink, I occupied one of small tables in the rear of the store. Behind me, sat a man and a woman, dressed in Pittsburgh Steelers jerseys, hovering over their laptops. Behind them, sat a man with oily gray hair...slicked back, earphones dangling from his ears. The large makeshift bag near his feet gave every indication that he was homeless...all of his portable possessions neatly wrapped in black plastic tarp. His head swayed from side to side, and his lips moved without an utterance as he listened to his music. In my best estimation he was fifty years old. He sat in style, wearing orange ski pants...his legs crossed and his foot tapping in the air.
Not more than five minutes after sitting down at my table, the homeless man's deep voice made conversation with the young couple next to him. A brief, but polite exchange ensued. Halting in its revelation, the few words spoken by the younger man in the Steelers jersey could have easily been translated as follows: "I don't know you. Don't talk to me, please." Then there was silence, intermittently punctuated by the barrista's calls and high-pitch vapors rising from steamed milk.
A few minutes later, the homeless man began singing. Loudly. Lyrics from the past. He sang in tune.
People are strange, when you're a stranger.
People look ugly when you're alone.
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted...
I recognized the first verse and the melody, thinking...anything can happen...this man may be mentally ill...put your computer away.... Then the lyrics came into focus, and I realized what the homeless man was doing as he continued to sing.
When you're strange.
Faces come out in the rain.
When you're strange.
No one remembers your name....
With those poetic lyrics composed decades ago by Jim Morrison, and their strategic deployment, the homeless man had both lashed out at the indifference expressed by that other man in his football jersey, and also conformed to that man's imputation of eccentricity. The lyrical performance was a powerful and scathing criticism of how we perceive strangers, and so willingly seclude them in anonymity when we don't even ask them their name. As the homeless man continued to sing aloud, I looked around the coffee house. Everyone else ignored the outburst, pretending not to be distracted...looking away, looking down, making casual conversation with others.
After singing the verses a few times, the homeless man stopped singing aloud. He didn't say anything for approximately thirty minutes. The couple with the football jerseys left. A few minutes went by. I looked behind me at the homeless man, and he looked back at me. Then he quickly looked down. I finished the rest of my coffee, an inch of cold, brown unpleasantness, grabbed my backpack and walked out the door...silently humming that melody crafted by Morrison thinking that the saddest part of the homeless man's poetic commentary was that it dissolved itself in our prejudices. I don't think anyone else paid close attention to the words uttered by the homeless man during his melodic rant. After all, crazy people aren't supposed to make sense....
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