Dear Anonymous,
This is from Oaxaca, Mexico. There is one fellow I have seen each time I visit who darts through the crowds, always asking for food. For money. Which is unusual here in my experience. He threads himself in from the periphery. I have seen wedding planners try and shoo him away from the doors of the cathedral when the big wedding ceremony is just ending, to get him out of the picture, out of the event...but he slips into the dark coolness of the spacious sanctuary, dirty and tattered, as the well clad wedding guests file by him toasting the newlyweds with shots of mezcal. Not belonging here. Not belonging there. I don't know his story at all. But it reminds me of here in Portland, Maine. On a rainy, cold,blustery day like today when, if you are on the street, there are times when there are not many choices to get in to be dry or stay dry. And I never know the whole story here either. Deprivation. Need. Desperation. Hurt. They are all characters in the untold story.
Mike says this morning as we stand drenched in the downpour, 'Out here there's all kinds. Some really kind people and some real a**holes. Just like anywheres else....'
People out to take advantage. Hustlers. Liars. Thieves. Deplorable behaviours. And the kindness of saints.
He walks the city after midnight and accompanies a man who just lost a brother in the military. They walk. They talk. He buys Mike cigarettes and they part ways. To a smoker with no cash this is a dream come true.
