What do you know?

Cincinnati is a dirty city. Congested. Polluted. Under re-construction because too many folks made too many decisions to let it go to shit. Plus, it's just old. Even so, Cincinnati is a beautiful city along the Ohio river, watching over the higher hills of Kentucky, nestled in the heart of the tri-state 275 Highway. You might see the homeless scouring every one-way street along the business district for fallen change and aluminum cans, have to walk around crowds of people waiting on public transit, and get shat on by a pigeon or two, but there's also fireworks after every Reds win, seafood you don't have to question (if you know where to go), and the biggest Oktober fest on this (the U.S.) side of the Atlantic.

As it happens, I was parked outside of Flynt's Sexy Gifts waiting for my friend to get off work, and I saw one of those homeless folks picking up change. At first, I thought nothing of it; this is how the man lives, who am I to judge? But then I saw him see me looking at him, and I got the notion (as anyone who's been in Cincinnati long enough to meet eyes with the homeless population) he was going to ask me for money. To my surprise, he offered only a shy smile and went back to working a grid along the sidewalk with his eyes for more change. What change he'd collected along this street so far, he held preciously in his hand, rather than pocket it as I expected him to the whole time I impolitely observed.

I'm not kosher with talking to strangers through open car windows so, I stepped out of the car before I addressed him. Whether I was feeling guilty for having expectations of his behavior, or he was simply close enough not to raise my voice, I dug into my painting apron for change and found a dollar, asking him if I could help. I didn't ask him what the money was for, that he was picking up, simply offered to make it a dollar more. The way he looked at me, I wasn't sure if I had offended him anyway, not until he smiled that shy smile again and looked to the sidewalk as if it had an answer. If it did, he had to suck it in with his breath, and it made him stand a little taller before he met my eyes and held his hand out for the dollar. His verbal reply came after.

It was a surprisingly long explanation about how, since his wife died he had been traveling by bus to anywhere there was an immediate (or minimal wait) departure when he showed up to get a ticket. He had been a professor, had two PhD's but no family left, and he lost the will to work, to live... Even though he had money in the bank, his wallet had been stolen in the first city he stopped in (Tampa, Florida- go figure) and he hadn't bothered to file a report to track it down. The man didn't consider himself homeless, but "Free-Living" and found some kind of peace in gid-searching the streets of cities he's never been to before, for pocket change and aluminum cans, car parts, siding scraps, and appliance shielding, "the lost, forgotten, and discarded," he said; but it was his conclusion that really stuck with me.

"...I don’t know, I just know what I know, but sometimes... you know, I just don’t know that I actually know what I know I know…you know?"

I laughed.

Because at first, I thought he was talking crazy! But then, my mind caught up to what I heard, and I looked at him again. He was looking at me with that expression you expect on your Mentor, waiting for you to "get it." Then he saw that I did as I smiled a smirky smile at him, nodding because I did know. We always think we know what we know, until we realize we don't know a damned thing we thought we knew. When I laughed the second time, he laughed with me, and my friend happened to come out of Flynt's Sexy Gifts at this point. She missed the hilarity but didn't miss a beat to poke fun at me. I didn't bother to explain, but wished him a nice day before I got back in the car.

-M.E.

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