A couple years ago, around Thanksgiving a homeless man spent a night or two at the suburban grocery store where I work, a location that is open 24-hours. He did so, and managed to make a short go of it, through civility and by paying his way. He would buy a small cup of coffee, sit on the bench inside the store and sip it, then take a walk around the parcel pickup area and continue in this way. He made sure to offer the bench seat to employees on break and customers waiting for a cab. He did not offer to remain next to us, as he seemed conscious of his body odor, which was not outrageous, but not something you want right next to you. By the end of the night he had consumed as many as ten, small cups of coffee, used the bathroom without making a mess, stayed warm and made some fans. He would clear out just before the morning shift arrived. I wrote about him in the article Mo Coffee.

Such homeless men know they must move on or wear out their welcome. If another bum finds this spot than the first guy is as good as gone. The manager can’t let a collection of these guys tie up his front end.

This past Monday night/Tuesday morning of the 24th and 25th of October, the first cold night of the season in Baltimore, Mo Coffee made his return, older, thinner, more timid, his jaw more tremorous.

Knowing he would be gone before the week was out, I engaged him in conversation as he tapped the coffee pot next to the pallet of cheese and juice I was sorting. He seemed to regard me as a boss, asking my permission to use the men’s room, calling me “sir,” etc. When I began questioning him about where he was staying and what kind of clothes he had, he became nervous and even less talkative. He does not do well with sentences and only put two together:

“You mean, you wanna help me out?”

“Got a be smart out there, can’t set yoself up.”

I warned him about Old Eastern Avenue and not heading east on Stemmers Run and to stay off of the sidewalks on the main drags after nine, because of gangs cruising in cars and looking for lone targets.

Mo Coffee’s name is Mike. His memory is poor. He was not clear what day it was, and unable to remember for certain what night I would be there again with a bag of clothes.

You see, Mike is the size I was when I first saw him and could use some of the clothes I need to get rid of. He had no socks, only a pair of cast-off, black leather sneakers, too small to lace all the way up, a dirty pair of jeans and a dirty sweater.

Mike had been living with his sister, over in Rosedale, but he spilled something on her new carpet and she slapped him around, called the police on him and had him put out. He has a peace order against him and had nothing but some cash and what he was wearing. He smelled like he’d been on the street for two weeks.

We shook hands, with scant prospects in my mind that he would remember that I’d be there at midnight on Wednesday and Friday with a bag of clothes each night.

At 9 a.m. I saw him at McDonalds with a cup of coffee, trying to make it last. I bought him another cup and wrote the times I would be there with clothes on the receipt and he thanked me. Mike scratches his head a lot and he did so as his jaw tremors set in when he tried to smile and I walked away.

Last night, when I arrived at 11:39, two hip hop heroes in clown outfits—the ebony and ivory of their suburban kind—were out front, not customers, up to no good. Having warned Mike about these guys, I wondered if their presence might scare him off. The cashier said Mike had not been there on Tuesday night.

At 1:00 a.m. I came up front and went outside to look for Mike. There were three pigs sitting in their pork mobiles over by the Chinese joint at the bus stop that was part of Mike’s shelter rotation as he migrated around Hawthorn. There was another group of mixed-race thugs in their early 20s hanging around outside, three of them, smoking heavily, lounging on the handicap carts, plugging in their smart phones: a dude with coal-black skin and real dreadlocks, a cagey mixed race guy who was eying me intensely, and a rough looking whigger with tattooed face, including the “I killed two dudes and feel bad and proud about it at the same time” tear drops under his left eye.

Since I seemed to have a purpose and the dreadlock guy was staring intently at the pigs, the mixed-race guy nodded to the tear drop dude and this worthy asked me if the store was open, as if he did not know. I nodded “Yes” and went back inside.

Mike never showed up.

This morning, at 4:23, I left and walked over to the bus stop he uses for a shelter when he is out of money. No one occupied the two seat shelter. However, under the glassy side panel facing east, were Mike’s shoes. He either got a better pair of shoes or got knocked or dragged out of these. I sat the bag of clothes with the leather jacket draped over it next to the shoes on the seat. It was about to rain. Maybe Mike or some bum like him will happen upon the clothes and make use of them.

I’ll take the other bag in on Friday.