He looks like Sam Elliot. Maybe he is Sam Elliot, practicing for the role of a homeless man who chose to live along the stretch of Clark Street that turns into Chicago Avenue once it crosses into Evanston. Every day, this man walks. I see him walking north from Evanston in the winter, wearing a leather jacket that still looks fashionable. His hair is slicked back, greasy and he has a full beard. The beard is somewhat trimmed, not too close, but enough to indicate that somewhere, someone is helping him get washed up from time to time. The eyebrows are full and white and his skin shows that he has been out for a long time in the sun. He stands about 6’4” I am guessing and his bearing is erect. There is no slouching, no look of someone who has been beaten down in life. The rest of his clothing is rather nondescript: tan pants, black shoes, a white shirt. From my car window as I glance, the appearance could easily be assumed as someone who is commuting to a job. Or perhaps someone who is an artist of some sort, the type of artist like a writer, walking the three miles between Rogers Park and the Binny’s liquor store in Evanston. I rarely see him north of that, though on occasion, he has been up at the park a block north of Dempster. But that seems to be his high water mark, his boundary. There is a “hotel” there in Evanston right near the park that has a lot of people who live on the edge. I see them every morning and evening, after dropping off Aine and Annie and then picking them up. All of them smoking, standing outside in all weather, looking around, hardly talking. Staring at the cars going by, staring at me going by. And perhaps they look at me with the same sort of curiosity about them: who are they? What led them to this place? Are they happy?
The Walking Man, if he lives there, doesn’t hang there. Instead, each day, it is a slow steady gait from Evanston to Chicago and back again. Once, I saw him hanging out near the news shop, in the park. He was sitting on a park bench, which was an extraordinary thing, his arms spread out across the top of the bench, hands clutching the top. He had a look of an urban Jesus, suffering on the cross, looking at the traffic as if to say “you did this to me.” But that was the only time I ever saw Walking Man not walking. Except, when he was standing in line at Binny’s clutching a six pack of some drink. I’ve never seen him panhandling. Not like the folks that hang outside Trader Joe’s, always asking for five dollars to catch a ride to Rockford to visit their mom. Or some other hard luck story. They hang at an imaginary line, obviously not that imaginary because it is on the sidewalk, just out of reach of the store property. And they ask confidently. Not begging. Asking. No “please can I have five dollars?” More like, “Gimme five dollars.” It is an interesting thing to note, a small amount of pride perhaps, but more like the seasoned expert, cutting through the niceties and asking for the cash. Not wanting to waste their time or yours.
No, the Walking Man I have never seen asking for money. He keeps to himself. He is more of a loner, a perfect prop to give a cowboy hat and boots to and pay to stroll along the boardwalks of Jackson Hole, tipping his hat to every tourist and possibly stopping to have a picture taken. He’d make a killing out there, or perhaps as some sort of dandy in New Orleans. His presence here, somewhat wasted by the lack of recognition by Northwestern Students, or businesspeople and by the fellow homeless and mentally ill that also have their haunts along this busy stretch of road.
And I realize I judge him. I assume he is homeless. I assume his mind is addled. I assume that is his only outfit of clothes. I assume that his daily routine of walking up and down from Evanston to Chicago and back again, several times a day is part of his process of coping with a world he doesn’t quite fit into. I could be all wrong and he could be all right. Perhaps he is writing a novel. Or perhaps he decided to get rid of all things in life that in the end don’t amount to much. Perhaps he is the most free person on the planet. After all, we pass each other as I am going on my odd routine, picking up and dropping off my loved ones. Heading to and from the gym. Going to the Trader Joe’s and back again. We might not be that different in the end. We both run up and down this busy stretch of road.
The only reason I judge him is because deep down I judge myself. Perhaps, his walking, his strolling, his decision to be what he is has more to do with the fact that he has forgiven himself of being himself.
I probably will never summon the courage to ask him what he is doing. And I realize that I seldom say a prayer for him, unlike other people I see walking along the street. I wonder what that is all about with my own prejudices, my own fears. Perhaps his life and my life are separated by the thinnest of “what ifs”. I am deep down in fear that I could easily be there with him.
All I know is that he walks with a sense of purpose to a destination that is not that clear. And all I know is that I too, move with a sense of purpose to a destination that is also not that clear. That might be all the explanation I need from him, the Walking Man.
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