An Occurrence at Owl Street

Everyone walking down Owl Street keeps their heads down. Not to block the cold wind from their eyes, but to avoid looking at the homeless man who lives on the doorstep of the abandoned church. Every day he begs for change, but the people learned that when they look down, he doesn’t ask. When they don’t see him, he doesn’t exist. So no one sees the foamy pool of bile and blood collecting in front of his mouth, but he still sees them all. He sees the same nameless faces walk by him every day.

He sees a man gripping a child's hand as they walk to school. Many months ago, there was a woman who would walk with them too. They’d always walk side by side with the child in between them, swinging his tiny arms together in unison as they walk down the street. One day, the man and woman both walked with their hands in their own pockets. After that, the woman never appeared again. The homeless man wishes he could talk to them, he feels their pain. He understands the child, he knows how it feels to not be wanted. He understands the man, he too was once married, and she was his everything. Even after he lost his job and money became difficult, he would tell her every night that the way she loved him made him richer than any man alive. He would have to pick up odd jobs from all around town, from burying graves to pulling weeds, but none of it offered steady work. He’d be out all day working or trying to find work, and could only see his wife at night. “Everything is worth it for this,” he would tell her. If he could create a family with her, everything would be worth it.

He sees a wrinkled old man pushing groceries along a cart. The homeless man remembers when the old man used to wear a knapsack to carry his food. The cart now doubles as his walker. He wears his face with a tightly bitter expression. Life for him must have been a war, and his wrinkles are his battle scars. The homeless man has always supposed that the man doesn’t have any kids, he’s always alone. The homeless man wonders how the old man feels, knowing that he will probably die alone. There is a dignity in it, the homeless man thinks. If he has supported himself for this long, it is only right for him to go out alone, and no one else deserves the privilege of being there for his last sacred breaths. Yet, the homeless man understands that he must meet the same fate, and maybe he’s just thinking about himself. Life too has been a war for the homeless man, as it is for everyone. The difference is that some are closer to the frontlines, some are forced to fight harder, and some lose more than others. The homeless man has been through it all, and his rough calloused hands prove it. He fought for his wife and his family. When she finally got pregnant, after months of false calls, he would give up his jobs so he could be her full support. At night, he would run out to steal food from the nearby farms. “Everything will be worth it,” he would say to her when he came back with his hands cut up from the thorns. They spent the last of their money preparing for a nursery, for Isaiah. And when Isaiah came, he refused to eat. And when the time came, the man buried his child under the thorned plum tree he took from. And when he returned, his wife was gone. A plum now fell from the old man’s cart. He muttered something but kept walking.

The homeless man sees a young girl running down the street while an annoyed-looking mother quickens her pace after her. As the child gets closer to the homeless man, the mother yells to keep her head down. The homeless man saw the child’s eyes, they looked wild as children's eyes do. They’re wanting to take in everything, it all looks so fresh and new. Those eyes see everything as anything they want it to be. The homeless man remembers when his own eyes were wild. Losing his wife and child made his soul run too wild for himself to bear. He relied on the burning, numbing sensation of hard liquor to tame him, but still, at times it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t stand to stay in the same place, so he started to move around from town to town, trying to pick up work along the way. Soon, his alcoholism began making him more barbaric, and he couldn’t hold down any job. Without working, he found it easier to stay in one place where he would beg until he could scrape up enough change for a bottle of booze. “Everything is worth it for this,” he would say as he hugs his bottle while he sleeps on the cold steps. The young girl now trips, she must have been too eager running down the road. This, the homeless man knows too well.

He watches everyone walking down the street until they all blur together and become indistinguishable. They’re all apparitions to him. All their lives are connected too, but no one looks up to see it. They all always keep walking. Then as quickly as everyone came, the street becomes empty. All is silent except for the howling wind. Looking forward, the homeless man sees himself in the reflection of a window across the street. He doesn’t think about anything, and he just stares at himself while the wind lifts his matted hair up and down and up and down.

Then, he sees his wife walking up Owl Street. She looks how he imagines her, just as the last time they saw each other. She’s different from everyone else, her head is up. She’s looking straight at him. Oh how there is so much beauty in her eyes. When he looks at her, all he can think about are the days of their youth, when all they would talk about is their future. Their future that was, to them, as endless as the stars in the sky. She's walking to him. Everything makes sense to him now. All the suffering he’s been through, the hunger, the separation, the cold, the loss, the loneliness, was all a test. Everything is worth it now! Yes, it all must have been a test. All the suffering makes this moment feel surreal, and how lucky is he to be here. Finally, there’s a meaning to his pain. Everything was worth it for this, he repeats to himself.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says. Tears start forming at his eyes, but the wind keeps them from coming out. Her voice is not as he remembered, it’s much softer and sounds like the wind that’s blowing. She kneels down and kisses his forehead. Her lips are cold but it makes his body feel warm. Her kiss is priceless. All the pain he’s felt for years starts to vanish as the kiss works its way through his body. Everything was worth it for this.

The homeless man is dead with his face in a pool of bile and blood. No one notices. Everyone keeps walking down Owl Street with their heads down. When new strangers come, they adopt the ritual, but no one knows the meaning of it. They all feel the shame that comes with having one’s head hung down.