The man was psychic. That's what the sign said, the sign he was holding, cardboard soaked by rain and flimsy in his hands: Psychic and homeless, please help!
Sometimes he would get food, arms extended to the passing car, grabbing at the faceless arm's package. Sometimes it was a cheeseburger or a fish sandwich. Nobody ever knew if he was actually psychic or not, because he would take whatever he got and bite into it hungrily without even checking to see what it was.
Sometimes all he would get was venomous glances, I mean, what was this old man doing, anyway, this cancer of society, this man who "simply refused to get a job like any decent human being. I mean Christ! What's the world gonna do with all these bums all over the streets..?"
Most of the time the eyes of the people in the cars seemed just to slide over the old man, as if he were not there at all. In any case, the cars never slowed down.
Day and night the man stood on the corner, highways on both sides. He would stand there, a lone figure, isolated by his many layers of filthy clothes as well as concrete. Isolated by the pavement that surrounded his grassy divider. Isolated by the glass of car windows, the metal of car doors.
One night, I heard, he got beat up by a bunch of drunk kids. They stopped, got out of the noisy pickup, and surrounded the poor old man. They hit him when his back was turned. "You're psychic, eh? Tell us who hit you?" They struck him again and again, and all he could do was turn and turn and turn around. "Who hit you? Tell us, old man! Ha! Who hit you?"
Today I saw him still standing there on his median, still bearing the bruises and the blood. They didn't kill him. Not yet, that is. His eyes do not hold fear, though. No, when he saw me drive past, when our eyes locked, they held...hurt.
He stands, holding his sign for all to see. Now, it does not mention that he is psychic, nor that he is homeless. It simply bears the words: God Bless. And every time I drive past, it strikes me like a knife to the heart.
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