my homeless family.

Every (week) day, I feel like I know the homeless bums of Seattle better than I know my own biological family.  I see the same bums at the same corners at the same times every single work day.  I’ve named them (in my head), we have mini in-passing conversations, I notice when something’s different, (I tell myself) I care.  One of them has the voice of gravel, and although his skin is black, I’m pretty sure he’s Cuban – I imagine him to be a homeless cross between Louis Armstrong and David ‘Big Papi” Ortiz.  He always bounces a tall Starbucks cold cup against his crossed legs and sits outside some old-woman upscale hippy-style store.  His stocking caps change, but he always wears a tan trench coat that’s meant for slightly cool summer nights.  I think he might freeze sometimes.  I call him Big Louie in my head.  Another one is really tall and stands just around the corner from Big Louie, leaning against an electrical transformer.  He uses a cardboard box to pan-handle, calls me ‘darling,’ flashes me the peace sign and walks with a limp and the assistance of a cane.  I like to imagine he’d be a pimp with the heart of gold if he lived somewhere else, like LA ‘cause he wears a leather jacket and an uber-trendy news boy hat.  The last one I see always breaks my heart; he’s a small, older blind man with physical deformities.  He wears an old beat up jacket the colors of the old Charlotte Hornets and turns side to side constantly asking for change in the lispy voice of someone who’s never been formally educated, tripping over words and sentences; no one ever stands long enough to hear his plea.  I call him Maestro ‘cause he seems like a guy who needs a cool nick-name. 

I go months without talking to my Ma, brother or sister, but I never go more than 2 days without seeing my bums, and on weekdays, I don’t go more than 9 hours.  I wonder if that’s sad that I feel I have a better rapport with these people than my family members.