Bob (not his real name)

I'm blessed to be retired. There is a measure of freedom that I appreciate.

One thing I do to stay involved is volunteer, serving the homeless. One guy in particular opened my eyes in a few areas. Let's call him "Bob".

He was about 6-foot tall, kinda lean (as you might expect), and had a goofy sense of humor. First time I met him, I said something silly and he responded as Moe Howard of the Three Stooges. I responded in kind as Curly, and it got sillier from that point forward.

From time to time, when I saw him, he'd have the shakes. I didn't know if it was Parkinson's or some other condition.

In the months to come, we got a chance to talk about many things, some serious and others light-hearted. He opened my eyes to life on the street. I had no idea the nature of the dangers after dark on the streets. More than once, Bob would tell me about some guy who got into a fight in the wee hours of the morning. Also, when Bob described the level of savagery, I was shocked. Also, there was a lot of theft between folks, which would also set off fights and arguments.

I can't say we were friends in the classic sense. I never even knew his last name. But, we had started to get to know each other enough to have in-depth, real conversations on a wider circle of topics. He helped me grow in new ways.

In my limited exposure to that society, I initially held the impression it was a loose-knit type of communal environment. It was a lot more dog-eat-dog that I'd ever considered. Bob mentioned several incidents where  some guy jumped him, and left him bruised. A couple of times, Bob ended up in the hospital to recover.

One Thursday in mid-October, Bob and I talked about the coming winter and his provisions for staying warm and dry. He also mentioned that a few nights before, he had awakened to a larger guy pummelling him around the head and shoulders. Bob wasn't visibly bruised, and not necessarily emotionally shaken. He seemed more resigned to the fact that such acts were part and parcel of life on the street.

The following week, as I was starting to set up, another homeless guy came up to me and asked "you heard about Bob, right?" The guy went on to tell me several guys took turns beating on Bob late one night, for reasons unknown. Apparently, during a pause in the assault Bob crawled away from the scene of the attack to a nearby point of concealment in an attempt to prevent a follow-on attack.

Bob's body was found at sunrise.

In the days that followed, I scanned the local paper for a mention, maybe an obituary. Nothing. Week after week, no mention.

I realize some murders capture the community's attention in a sudden way. Others may be noted, but the story soon fades. Some get ignored. I don't know if the local police are in the midst of investigating, or if they are stymied by lack of leads. This is not to disparage their efforts to keep the streets safe.

To think that Bob died alone on some downtown street, by the hand of others, and has been all but forgotten is heartbreaking.

Life is such a gift. There are so many signs around us that reveal just how much we've forgotten that fact.

The take-away I offer is this: take the time to consider what your existence means. What does your life symbolize? What do you stand for?

P.S., in mid-November, I got word that a different homeless guy I know (let's call him Carl) also suffered an attack from a group of guys, apparently just because.