Sunday, 17 March 2002 | Homeless

He told me his name was Frank, and that when he was just twelve years old, he killed another little boy. He told me his parents brought him up racist, and when that little black boy said something he didn't like, he lost control. The anger generated by that off-hand remark swelled in his head and spread to his fists and legs and chest and was only released when the little boy underneath him stopped moving. He told me he hadn't intended to kill him, that he hadn't intended to spend the rest of his childhood behind bars, and that he hadn't intended to leave for Vietnam at eighteen to kill some more.

He spoke loudly but almost incoherently, his words garbled and his voice gruff and jagged. He repeated himself and gave indirect answers, responding to questions he found in his head rather than to the ones I'd asked. Hunched over, brown moustache, receding hairline, he looked something like David Crosby, minus the healthy gut.

His buddy, Steve, was much more fluid. He was tall and thin and kept his chin-length gray hair clean and combed and his face newly shaved. His eyes were alert, and he made eye contact with me when he spoke, always serious and sincere. He'd often talk for Frank, answering Frank's questions when Frank seemed unable. He seemed excited to have new ears to fill and kept talking until I would pull myself away, exhausted. It was easier talking to Steve, though I never knew how much of what he said was true. I never believed that his father invented Velcro, or that he was a millionaire. Millionaires don't live on the street.

For a period of two weeks, I drove Frank and Steve to shelters to spend the night, dropped them off at convenient stores, and listened to Frank grunt and Steve ramble. I'd play a certain mix tape that made them laugh and reminisce; they would sing along whenever Janis Joplin, the Velvet Underground, or Neil Young would play. They never asked me for money (and I never gave them any), but once they bought me breakfast at the IHOP, where we ate together, among a crowd of watchful eyes.

I stopped spending time with them when I started feeling abused. I didn't trust them, and I could never decide whether what I was doing was fair, to me or to that little black boy killed on the playground.

I've seen Steve sporadically over the years, still wandering up and down Hillsborough Street, still shaving and combing his hair. He doesn't recognize me, though. My hair is no longer short, and I purposely avoid his eyes. Frank, however, just disappeared. It wasn't until last week, almost six years later, that I saw him, ambling down an aisle at the grocery store. I paused for a moment and kept going.