everyone else has a share, and no one starves while I eat.
— Leo Tolstoy
Gimme Shelter
It was a weird night at the pub.
I escaped from my worries for a few hours and met a mystery girl. Not my usual Guys' Night Out with Matt, but intriguing nonetheless.
It was after midnight when I got back home.
I spotted Homeless Dan curled up in the foyer. It was a bit cool sleeping on the floor next to an outside door, but it was better than the freezing temperatures outside and he was out of the wind.
I tried to put the thought of him out of my mind, but couldn't. I went down to the basement and retrieved a cold-weather sleeping bag I use when I go camping—it's lightweight, wearable and guaranteed to keep you warm at below freezing temperatures. I snuck back out to the foyer and draped it over him.
Now I could get to sleep without guilt.
When I awoke and checked the foyer, he was gone—the sleeping bag folded neatly and stored in a corner.
I should have woken him last night and told him to keep it. It's bitterly cold today with a high of only 20 F.
It's crazy for me to obsess. I'm not getting in my car and looking for him—but I want to.
Can't save everyone, I remind myself, and try to sublimate the urge by having a hot breakfast.
Somehow a meal isn't satisfying if you know someone is hungry...or cold.
And the irony is I'm just scraping by myself—not desperate as Dan, but I can identify with his angst…
And yes, I'm back to that.
As I finish my breakfast, the neighbour's cat moans from the back patio. I open the slider and let him in.
I feed him some canned tuna and let him curl up on the couch. Way I see it, if a cat moans from the cold somewhere a person is moaning too.
I feel helpless this morning about everything, but that's how I feel most days anyway.
I busy myself mopping the hallways and foyer and replacing worn weatherstripping on external doors.
About noon, I spot Dan sheltering in a church doorway down the street. I drive over and pick him up.
"On my way to Tim Hortons," I tell him, "hop in and I'll treat you to lunch."
He gets in and I see his face is white and a bit frostbitten and his fingernails look blue.
The car heater is turned up full blast and the seat warmers are on. I opt for the drive-thru and order us two chilli dinners, extra-large coffees and a dozen donuts.
I park in the lot and we sit quietly eating and I can see colour returning to his cheeks,
"That was you who gave me the sleeping bag?" he asks.
I nod. "Noticed a bit of a draft though that door. Fixed it this morning."
"Thanks," he mutters, "That was really good gear."
"You go camping?" I ask.
"Yeah, every night—beats shelters where they rob you blind or worse."
I go silent hoping he'll talk, but he doesn't.
"How long have you been living rough?" I ask.
"Three months. Lost my job in August and then the money ran out, so I slept in parks and under bridges but it's too cold for that now."
"What kind of work did you do?"
"Construction," he sighs, "did everything—drywalling, carpentry, plumbing—you name it, I did it."
"Why don't you get another job?"
"I'm blackballed from the trades because I wanted to get the migrants a better wage. Nobody will hire me."
"Yeah, I've heard about that. That's rough."
"I get by," he says defensively, "It's just hard when it gets this cold."
“Look, I need an assistant—can’t pay much, but I have a vacant unit and you can stay there for free in return for watching over the property and doing small repairs."
"Really?" he gives me a sidelong glance, suddenly mistrusting me.
"Try it for a week," I say off-handedly, "I know it's not much, but it's all I can offer right now. It'll at least get you by this rough patch."
"It just might do that," he says.
I stifle a smile. He has no options. But it will get him off the streets and salve my conscience.
I can make a difference—small as that may be.