As we biked at 11:30pm to Amanda's place in uptown to stay the night , we passed a gas station on Lake St near the Mercado Central, and the natural inclination was to go in and buy an ice cream. Inspite of the neighborhood being slightly sketchy, we (maybe it was more me than Brint) gave into temptation and I soon emerged from the store with two ice cream treats in my hands. At that moment, a well built, slightly scruffy looking black man came up to us and started conversation. "Where ya'll from, where you biking to this late at night, across the country or something?" Of course, we had to tell him we actually were biking across the country, even though all our bags were at Erinn's in Lakeville, 30 miles away. When we told him we were from Madison he used the opportunity to connect with us; "Oh, I'm from Wisconsin too! Grew up in Milwaukee!" While I do my best to accept all people, no matter how they look, my brain was squirming with bad thoughts. 'Uh oh, maybe he'll just keep talking to us while his friends get in a better position to mug us,' I kept looking around to make sure we were still alone. After giving us a very brief description of his current life situation-homeless in Minneapolis-he asked for money. While I also don't give money to homeless people very often, I felt quite guilty that I was about to indulge in an ice cream treat, while he was going to sleep on the street somewhere, so I gave him a dollar.
I thought this would be the end of the encounter when he walked into the store and we started to bike off. But a few moments later he came out of the store yelling "hey madison, madison." We obliged and turned around to see what else he wanted. As he came up to us again, more thoughts raced through my mind. 'Why does he keep reaching behind his back? Is there a gun or a knife in his back pocket? Did he just call his friends now that he knows he found two clueless white kids with wallets?' Instead, he burst into a series of apologies; "I'm sorry, I don't like to beg, I don't really ever do it, I feel really bad about that," and further description of his current situation; "When I sleep at the salvation army, they kick us at 6am every day and tell us we can sleep there, but we can't stay there, and they kick us out, so now I pay an old man $25 a night to sleep on his porch, I don't know why I pay that much, that's just the way the deal worked out at the time." He then asked us if he could share something personal with us. We were very taken aback, still uneasy about trusting the man in that moment, but we agreed to hear what he had to say. What proceeded, was a 5 minute poem/rap/rhyme about what his life was like. Listening to him was like looking through the eyes of that man as he talked about his childhood as an orphan, addiction to drugs, need for a place to sleep at night, and his thoughts as he entered the darkest places of a city to sleep-dark corners of old abandoned houses that young children run quickly by during daylight hours in fear of what lies within. When he was finished, we thanked him, and I was happy to give him three more dollars, the last of the money I had on me. I told him he should try to get the poem published-if he spent all day thinking about the lines, they must be worth something, maybe even enough to get by without sleeping at the salvation army. As we left, I asked for his name, "Chris" he replied. "I'll look for your music," I said, and we were gone, biking down the greenway and completely shocked about what had happened.
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