Doorway People

He sat crosslegged in the doorway of the abandoned building, eating doughnuts from a dirty Krispy Kreme bag. He flashed me a toothless grin, this old, black man with a ragged ski cap pulled low over his forehead. And then he offered up his bag of doughnuts.

Generosity of spirit lives in mysterious and unexpected places.

I wanted to take his picture but the camera spooked him and he waved it away with an extravagant shake of his head. Most people - even those who wake up in cold, downtown doorways - say yes but I always ask and always respect their wishes when told no. When I was a child, my grandmother would sometimes treat me to an afternoon of shopping - Jordan Marsh and Filene's each had stores in downtown Boston - and if I was very good, she would take me for a ride on Boston Common's swan boats. Even then, the Common and the downtown streetcorners were littered with the homeless. They slept on the grass and on the benches and panhandled around the theatre district - raggedy, dirty, unshaved and unwashed old men who reeked of whiskey and stale tobacco. If they approached us, Nana would glare and wave her cane in their direction.
She called them bums and winos, too shiftless to work for a living and warned me repeatedly don't get too close, you'll catch something. I never doubted her.

But now I'm not so sure and I think we should have been kinder.