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www.deltalivingmagazine.com
January – March 2014
shoulder, notepad and pen in my
back pocket and a water bottle
in the front pocket of my blue
plaid, flannel shirt. I was nervous
to meet him. Would he even be
lucid?
As I walked across the street, I
saw people in cars watch me, some
smiling as if to give me the “you
have guts girl,” or “what a Good
Samaritan you are.” I wished for a
second the cars were gone, and it
was just him and I, but at the same
time, I wanted visibility, in case he
was dangerous.
He was mumbling to himself
underneath his sleeping bag as
I came within a foot from him,
squatting to be his level, face-to-
face, eye-to-eye. He had bluish
green eyes with an overall sadness;
his one inch beard of light brown
and white hair and a manicured
mustache. His voice was kind and
giving; it didn’t match his melan-
choly countenance.
“Thompson with a ‘p,’” he
said, when I asked him his name.
I told him mine, and he repeated
it back perfectly.
“How are you, are you okay?”
I asked, handing him the bagged
lunch.
“I’m okay, how are YOU?” he
answered, repeating it a couple of
times.
“I brought you a lunch, are
you hungry?” I asked, making a
mental note to stop asking double
questions at a time. I was nervous.
“That’s for you, that’s your
lunch, are YOU hungry?” he
came back with. My heart sank as
I squatted next to him, trying to
give him food, he kept turning it
around on me.
He refused to take the wa-
ter, pointing to his many bags,
insisting he had plenty. Just like
him, the bags were covered, so I
couldn’t tell if he really did have
water or not. A white plastic bag,
just inches from my feet, revealed
ants running around it, so I fig-
ured it might’ve contained food.
Ants could care less about things.
He finally accepted the brown
lunch bag, placed it under his pile
and let me ask him more ques-
tions and take photos. After snap-
ping only five frames, I scooted
back next to him, still squatting,
and began writing down his an-
swers on my reporter’s notebook.
With the early morning sun
beating down on both of us, he
watched me write and asked if
I was with the newspaper. I told
him “Magazine, I’m with the
magazine.” He quickly offered “I
follow the San Francisco Chroni-
cle, East County Times and Time
Magazine.” I couldn’t imagine
him following any publication,
but figured he did at one point
in his life. “Obama, I don’t know
what to think about it,” he added
on his own. I thought perhaps he
was talking about Obama Care.
His fingers were long, wrin-
kle-free and brown with dirt, but
he didn’t smell.
“Dwight. Dwight Thompson
with a ‘p,’” he offered out of no-
where. “Do you need to see my
license?”
His question flowed instinc-
tively, which made me wonder
how many times he had been
asked for his license by the police.
I asked him if Dwight was his
first name. He nodded yes. He
said he was 65-years-old, born on
March 2, 1948 and moved “here”
27 years ago on his own from
the Midwest. Said he was never
drafted for the service because
he wasn’t physically qualified,
and had worked as an assistant for
managers. He said he was in busi-
ness for himself from time to time
and always did service-type work.
“I got a disability and I tried to
take care of it myself,” he said. “I
have things I need to take care of.
It takes awhile to get things right.”
My squatting abilities gave
out, and when I tried to reposi-
tion myself, I began to topple a
bit. He immediately grabbed my
writing arm and asked if I were
“okay.” Again, I couldn’t get over
his concern for me. I assured him
I was okay and heard a car honk,
but I didn’t want to give it any at-
tention. He began to mumble to
himself, so I decided it was time
to take my leave.
I thanked him for talking to
me and tried to leave the water
bottle.Again he refused to take it,
so I stuffed it back into my shirt
pocket. I gestured a ‘goodbye’
with my outstretched arm, we
touched hands, but he gave no
grip.
I left, walking towards the
crossing section, the lower half of
my eyes filled with heavy tears.
I reached my truck and just sat
there.To process. I couldn’t drive.
I couldn’t move. The rest of the
day was filled with errands laced
with pain and bouts of tears when
no one was looking. I flashed
back to shutting my bedroom
window the night before, because
the wind and cold was wafting in.
I thought of the blanket that cov-
ered Dwight’s body last night. I
thought of the cold that probably
pierced through his blankets and
thin body.
I felt helpless to help Dwight.
I’m a single woman living with
my college-bound son, living pay-
check to paycheck like most peo-
ple I know.What was one bagged
lunch gonna do for him anyways?
What kind of story was I looking
for with Dwight? Days later, he’s
still there, at the corner of Lone
Tree Way and Brentwood Blvd.,
SUV’s driving by, people looking