honor the face of an old man

By the fourth step descending into the concrete jungle of the Concourse 15th and JFK, one of two pungent odors greets the nostrils.  In the early morning hours, a distinct bleach scent will be in the air with evidence of cleaning found on the wet concrete floor of Sherwood Forest.  Although the air is biting, its far more welcome than the more heavy odor of sweat and urine and smoke that otherwise fills the air.  More often than not, a puddle must be traversed at the landing of the concrete stairs... a familiarity which seems annoying, but missed when gone. 

Sherwood Forest is an informal name given to a large public area between Suburban Station and the Concourse Tunnels under 15th and JFK in Philadelphia. The area holds a number of large concrete pillars that have been decorated with greenery and jungle/forest scenes (admittedly, I have not a clear recollection of the pictures because I haven't examined them specifically).  It's generally used for a resting area for people without proper sleeping places, particularly during the cold and/or wet days. The few corridors are generally considered ideal locations for drug deals and usage.  Not surprisingly, this Sherwood Forest doesn't hold the same endearing qualities as Robin Hood's hiding spot.

A wall of glass doors lead one into the Concourse tunnels and the Mezzanine Area, where numerous shops exist in a surprisingly cozy environment. Leaning against the doors, with Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cup in hand and a half-eaten muffin resting on the ledge, stands an elderly man.  Standing up straight to be measured, he may stand 5’ 8 “ or so, but years of gravity hunched his shoulders and posture to a 5’6” stance.  He is dressed in shades of black pants, jacket and thick vest, with brown carpenter type boots.  The ever-present stocking hat rests comfortably over a wrinkled and secretive face.  A salt and pepper beard rests in an unkept, yet distinguished manner, on his chin. His skin is dark chocolate in color, aged by the weather and years.

Our first meeting is little more than a nod and grunt, in response to a quiet good morning greeting.  His stance and mannerisms are obviously defensive, slightly paranoid, and apparently familiar with solitude.  Nevertheless, a silent connection is made.

I began to anticipate and look forward to the early mornings entering the underground world and speaking briefly with my new friend.  Slowly, we began to speak more… sharing name and commenting on the general nonsense of people. He was definitely a man of few words. However, it did not take long to identify the sharp wit he possessed, along with an endearing chuckle. Perhaps more than anything, I was struck by the humility he possessed. From a past age, his pride made it difficult for him to accept help… but slowly, ever so slowly, as a friendship of sorts began to flourish, trust built and gifts or advice were accepted minimally.

Within a few weeks, the man allowed us to connect him to medical insurance and regular care, a peaceful (yet temporary) shelter to rest, food stamps and eventually income.  Over the next nine months, away from the cold concrete environment and gaining rest, he shared more of his story… became more comfortable and independent… yet he always remained somewhat hidden.

Egg foo Yong, chocolate, iced tea, and quiet were always favorites… as well as listening to the stories and antics of his adopted girls (I like to think anyway). A sparkle set permanently in his eyes, with a humor able to match the changing times…yet marked by dignity, exemplified by covering his head at all times.  Tears often jumped quickly to his eyes with gifts of sweets or time or a back pat. He always maintained a stubborn independence and fight, with a feisty charisma that charmed every person he encountered.

…but nearly nine months later, my heart is heavy because I descend the stairs into the Concourse and traverse the tunnels peaking into all hallways and niches, hoping against hope that I see the slightly hunched, stocking hat covered form of my friend.  For the last two weeks he has been away from his adopted home... without word of plans to leave or location, I can only guess at where he may be these last days. Wherever that is, I pray he is safe and warm and dry, especially on this damp night. 

And so, I write this in honor of a great man.

If you are out there my friend… please be safe, be happy, be well.  I look forward to the day we meet again.

"You shall stand up before the gray head and honor the face of an old man, and you shall fear your God: I am the Lord."  (Leviticus 19:32)