I wrote this story to shed some light on homelessness and how even one evening with someone can help.

The doorbell chimes thrice, notes stumbling over each other in their hurry, becoming garbled as they overlap. “It must be Sarah.” I think, reaching the door as the melodies become distinct once more. I open the door to find that the garbage men have skipped our house again and begin writing out the complaint I would lodge at the Sanitation Department in my head. A large hand is offered to me. Grubbiness pervades every wrinkle of the desiccated stubs. My eyes follow the hand back to its socket, back to the brown sweater that covers it and the head of our visitor. The other hand tugs at the neck of the sweater, out from which pops a disheveled forty-year old with a dried-up oasis of exposed flesh running down the side of his cheek, its outer rim caked with coagulated blood. It reminds me of a cracked egg; the hard outer shell surrounds the tender yolk of his flesh. His pale skin is a mourner’s veil, papery and colorless. I take his hand, careful not to show my disgust at the boils and lacerations that are hopeful spatters of life and activity, however diseased they may be.

My daughter nudges me. “This is George, Dad. He was my veteran for Veteran’s Day, remember?” I think back to a week ago when she came home from school, her eyes gleaming with reverence for the men and women who fought for them. As their “Battle Buddies” told of their service, the kids abandoned their frantic flag-waving and stared at them with all the intensity fourth-graders could muster. My daughter and her Battle Buddy file into the house. Unsure of whether to stand or not, George stays by the table until he’s offered a seat by Sarah, who feels to be his host more than I do. Feeling guilty of my relative wealth, I keep conversation to art or music, things with which I can fill the void between now and when he leaves. Sarah fills in when George’s voice box is too slow. Conversation is a mixture of flat, emotionless first-person monologue and an impassioned recapitulation of the former’s opinion, and my interjections over a pot of goulash. George inhales his bowl, refilling it in between bouts of typing. The outer rims of our bowls stay white so that George’s can be a darker, richer brown. George brandishes his arm at a painting of a sunset, my pet project for this week, in a grand sweeping motion. Using this gesture, he segues into the monologue he wrote while we ate. “I used to paint in therapy. Happy scenes, like Rockwell. Something to focus on, to look forward to back home.” Sarah returns with her palette, and a canvas propped up on a cheap plastic frame and begs him to paint something. So he paints himself. He regurgitates the color taken from the goulash he slurped up as the brown swabs that form his sweater. Sarah’s green has hardened into a monochromatic pebble, so his eyes become blue and his pants jeans instead.

Having filled ourselves, conversation peters out. A few stabs at conversation are made, but each receives only monosyllabic grunts in return. After thirty minutes of this and a sinking horizon that obscures our faces in darkness, I clap George on the back. “So, where will you sleep tonight?” His body tenses in indecisiveness, not sure whether to push his luck with his hosts. “We only have two rooms, not including the kitchen.” I say apologetically, gesturing to the little corridor that leads to them. Sarah says she’ll give up her bed, but George and I refuse, both on each other’s behalf. She finds a homeless center online and promises to visit him, before turning to me, asking “Can I come with?” The fifteen-minute drive is quickly over, the traffic having thinned out at this hour. I get out to shake hands with him and watch Sarah and George press their parting gifts into each other’s’ arms as they both make their teary goodbyes.; leftovers for him and his self-portrait for both of us.