It’s Sunday morning, that time when the downtown streets are quiet, recovering from the madness of the night before … sleeping in, sleeping it off, waking up to the sticky heat of a summer morning.
I’m walking with my dog to my favorite breakfast café. We pass the flagship downtown Neiman Marcus. He stands there gazing into the picture window at all that unattainable luxury, high heels and high-end cosmetics, polished floors and gleaming surfaces. He stands in rags, long, matted hair hiding his face. He’s one of the homeless “regulars” downtown; I’ve seen him in almost every area in the center city. I always notice him because he looks like one of my favorite singers … if he were to live on the streets.
I wonder what he’s thinking as he stands there staring. I think of Truman Capote’s Holly Golightly seeking escape from the “mean reds” in the windows of Tiffany’s where “nothing very bad could happen to you.” I’ll never know. This particular man never speaks, rarely makes eye contact. I dare not break his silence, and so I leave him to his reverie and continue down the Sunday street alone.