I’m going to tell this in installments. It is alternately funny and sad, and it’s a long story. I’m not really sure why I’m sharing it, but it seems right to do so. I’ll try to post installments as I write them. This is what happened to me on Monday…
Installment #1
My coworkers and I took a stroll late Monday afternoon to get some coffee. Like every other moderately sized metropolitan area, Columbus, Ohio has its share of homeless people. It’s a common occurence to be approached by panhandlers asking for money. As we saw a vagrant pushing his cart in our direction, we braced ourselves for the inevitable hard-luck story and request for money. We were stumped by this particular individual’s question.
“Wanna see my kitty?” Normally, I just keep going when approached by panhandlers, but this question gave me pause. This man was obviously mentally handicapped, judging by his demeanor and speech. Still, one cannot be too careful. “Wanna see my kitty” might be a euphemism for something else entirely. My mind, however, was screaming “Kitty! I want to see the kitty!” So I bit. “Sure,” I said, taking charge, “Where is your kitty?”
“Don’t know. I can’t find the house,” he said. He dug out a crumpled piece of paper with an address scrawled on it in child-like writing, and offered it to me. “Brother wrote it down, but I can’t read.” The address was a few streets over, so my coworkers and I agreed to walk him to his home. God help me, I didn’t know what I was getting into. I should have turned and walked away right then.