Thought for Food

Thought for Food   Artwork RRB

"My name's Cleo!" he said shuffling up to me on the sidewalk outside our apartment. "How do you spell 'Cleo'?" Then, without waiting for an answer: "C-L-E-O. Like Leo with a 'C' on it!" He peered at me, the lines around his eyes deepening. "I know you," he said. "I seen you around." I knew Cleo,too. He was a neighbor. He lived on our street, wherever he could find space between Mission and Folsom.

I usually just nodded at him. Used to hand him a few coins if I had them, when I used to think it would make a difference. Yesterday when he came by, my mood was as overcast as the sky. I was clearing the trash out of the flowerbeds again, careful not to get poked by the occasional hypodermic that would grow there amongst the withering marigolds.  Where did all this trash come from? There was a neverending flow of wrappers, newspapers, cups, t-shirts that threatened to overwhelm our frustrated attempt at neighborhood beautification.

I wanted to ignore him. Wanted him to take this garbage from my hands, from this street and go away. But Cleo was having none of that. "I like your flowers. I watch out for 'em. Keep my eye on 'em for you."
I couldn't help smiling. "Thanks Cleo... How are you doing today?"
"Oh, I'm alright. I'm alright. Real hungry, though."
I looked away.
"Yep, I watch your flowers for you. Make sure no one steps on 'em."
I nodded, my smile fading as I tried to escape back into the building.
"I'm Cleo. How do you spell 'Cleo'?"
"Like Leo with a 'C' on it." I replied as I crossed the threshold.
"Ha, ha ha! That's right!" he chuckled, scratching his white beard and turned to find a place up the street. Maybe he'll tuck himself into the doorway of the $800,000 condos that still haven't sold, I thought, trying to envision someplace relatively dry...relatively safe.

Today, the sun broke through.  It was one of those shirt-sleeve, long pants, dry, warm days I'd long for most of the year back in Minneapolis but that we get so many of in The City. John and I were walking out the door when our ears were assaulted by the familiar whine of sirens. 
"The daily accident on the corner," John commented. I nodded preparing to cross the street and jump into the carefree day.
But then we saw the stretcher. And the white beard.

The change felt heavy in my pocket.