A PLACE FOR CHRISTOPHER

A woman who walks a dog is going to meet a lot of men. In my part of town, they’re mostly down and out. One April morning at a neighborhood park, we met Christopher, whose landlord recently sold the house where he’d been renting. Unable to find a new place within his budget, he pitched his tent in the park, set up his laptop and continued to manage freelance work as a millwright and cleaneer. His campsite looked freshly raked, with a Boy Scout’s sense of order.

At 46, Christopher has never been married and doesn’t drink or do drugs. Addicts used to hang out at the park, until he told them, “I’m in charge now.” As we spoke, he mussed Casey’s fur with practiced hands untouched by soap in a while. He waved to a passing woman and her preschool daughter; they waved back. Just because he had no home didn’t mean he had no friends. He told me the park beats the shelter, where thievery is rampant (phones, laptops, anything of value) and the staff sell drugs.

The street ages people fast, but Christopher had smooth skin and all his teeth. When I said he looked good, he didn’t take me for a dirty old lady. Someone had to let him know he made a good impression. Why not me, a woman of maternal age? I didn’t mention his eyes, blue and piercing. But how disarming those eyes would be on a first date. Must have been a while since Christopher shared a candlelit table with someone who had hopes for what they might share.

I used to stride past homeless people. With a dog beside me, I often stop and chat. I thought I might help him line up some new business, but brushed off my suggestion. “I need some balance in my life.”

“We’ll be back,” I said. All the way home, I considered what I might bring him. Hand sanitizer, toothpaste. Maybe some chocolate. Then it struck me, with a stab of shame, that I should have asked what he’d like.

Six weeks went by. I’d catch sight of his blue tent from across the street and think to myself “Another day.” His need and my incomprehension of it made me too uncomfortable. I don’t know why I called on him when I did, a Sunday morning in June.

Approaching the park with Casey, I couldn’t make out the blue tent. We drew closer. Gone. Christopher sat on a ledge where his makeshift home used to be, a wisp of his former self. His cheeks had gone pale, and despair welled in his still-brilliant eyes. The gaping hole in his dusty jeans was no fashion statement. “I was on top of the world,” he said. “Found a place to live I could afford. It’ll be mine in six weeks. But the city just took my tent. I can still sit here. I’m not allowed to sleep here.”

His belongings sat under two tarps. I noted a motorcycle, a computer, every size of box and several bikes he’d been repairing. How was this more unsightly than the tent? Whose interests are served? If Christopher abandoned the park, he would lose his possessions. An odor rose from him — not so much dirt as anxiety and fear.

“Is there anything I can bring you?” Yes. He had plenty of toothpaste, but hand sanitizer would help. And food, more than anything. “I get tired of the food at Good Shepherd. It all tastes the same.”

Back home I filled a tote bag for Christopher. Hand sanitizer, an opened container of hummus, clementines, apples and the rest of my homemade lunch, a chickpea salad with feta and Italian tuna. I found a chicken cutlet, left over from the other night’s dinner. Filled a plastic bag with hazelnuts and organic dried apricots from the Persian grocery store. Considered defrosting a hearty serving of turkey chili, then decided it might not taste like much at room — no, air — temperature.

Casey isn’t one to share a bag of food, so I didn’t take him with me to the park. This errand shouldn’t wait or the food might spoil. I found Christopher asleep, his head against a cement wall and his mouth slightly open, like my son’s when he was little. I used to like watching Ben sleep, safe in his bed with the stuffed mouse he loved. It didn’t seem right to be watching Christopher. I left the tote bag at his feet, kicking myself. It held plenty for a slip of a woman like me, but not for a guy who hadn’t eaten since who knew when.

The best thing I did for Christopher was share his unfolding story on social media. Care has a way of seeding itself, like dandelion fluff on the wind. One woman opened her garage to Christopher, and personally transported as much of his gear as it would hold. A friend of hers found him a used but functional computer. A neighbor and I walked over with lunch and a bottle of laundry detergent to replace the stolen one. We found no trace of Christopher. So I was relieved to meet him in the park the other day, looking hopeful. He’s had it rough this summer, but he never lacked friends. They include two police officers who look out for him and advise him of his rights.

He told me he can’t wait to cook his first meal in his new home — roast beef with red onion, garlic and banana peppers.

“You like it hot,” I said, not sure about this combo

“And chipotle peppers,” he added with a grin. Savor every bite, Christopher. You’ve waited plenty long enough.