Through the window I could see the lower half of Eddie’s legs and his feet, which were perched on the very tippy top step of the ladder, the step that is clearly marked “This Is Not A Step.” The scene weakened my knees, doubly so when he raised himself further up on his toes in the attempt to clean the highest part of the eight foot window. As he did so, the ladder began to give way by tilting, ever so slightly, onto two legs. By the Grace of God it went no further. Eddie’s life was spared when the ladder rediscovered its center and settled back on all four legs, and I was spared the indignity of a potential law suit.
Eddie is “homeless,” and makes money by doing odd jobs around the city. Most involve cleaning cars but he also finds work cleaning windows and, recently, raking and bagging leaves in the small park behind our building. I say “our” building but Eddie is not included in the “our.” Indeed, I’m not actually sure where Eddie resides when he’s not on the street, and haven’t taken the time to ask him. What I do know about Eddie is that he’s willing to work for money, which I respect. But what I also know is not to pay Eddie until the job is done. He has a tendency to wander away when he has money his pocket and I’ve been burned.
It occurs to me that I should take the time to learn more about him, and I might do that once I feel I am ready for the answers. But what if he’s just a drug addict? What if his whole story revolves around him leaving a job, wife and family simply to satisfy an addiction? This all-too-common mundanity would evoke no empathy from me. If this, or something similar, turned out to be the truth I would most likely lose the respect I have for Eddie, and for me he would likely sink back into the generic mass of homeless, panning for dollars from pedestrians.
But what if Eddie’s story is different? What if it’s still essentially mundane (like drug addiction) but also involved something he could not control, something more intriguing. Eddie has a limp, which is curious and points to something traumatic in his past, or at least a birth defect, which could be equally traumatic but not terribly exciting. Maybe he’s a war hero or an ex-CIA operative who sustained his injury during clandestine operations. Maybe he was a New York firefighter on 9/11 and saved a dozen people before the steel beam crashed down on his leg from above. Maybe, Eddie used to be a scientist but now his brain, due to the trauma, is operating just far enough off the scale that there is no way he could ever hold down a job with regular hours despite his desire to work. And what if none of that is right?
By the time Eddie descends the ladder I realize I know as little about him as I do about the counter employee that served me at the coffee shop the morning before, and that my impact on his life is marginal at best. I cannot fix Eddie. I cannot make up stories that will make his life whole. I don’t know who loves Eddie or who he loves, if anyone. I don’t know if Eddie reads or has a lover. I don’t know where Eddie goes when he’s done washing my windows. We are not drinking buddies. We do not share this type of information.
I pay Eddie, AFTER the job is done, of course. I feel magnanimous but somewhat empty. I feel magnanimous because I believe I have done good. Good for Eddie, God, and the universe in general. I feel somewhat empty because if I’ve actually done some good, its effects are far more miniscule than I would like to believe. Eddie, by necessity, essentially lives only in the moment, or maybe up to thirty minutes into the future. The money I give him will be spent within minutes, and then he will have to hustle for his next meal. I’m a small piece of his puzzle, and will never see all the pieces come together. At least he didn’t fall off the ladder.