Sir

On my run this morning, under the Eliot Bridge in Cambridge, I came upon a disheveled man sleeping on pieces of cardboard in front of two battered suitcases. Seeing people passed out on benches or curled in a doorway is so common you almost don’t see them anymore, which is sad and tragic. On the way back, I ran by the man again and noticed his hand was curled around a ceramic mug, as if he had fallen asleep that way. It seemed odd and I kept thinking about it as I headed home. Was he overdosed? Dead? Maybe I should call the cops to check on him. Why don’t you check on him? I said to myself. As if in answer, that feeling rose up, oh someone else will, I have to get home to start on a hot project. But I realized what a gross cop-out that was and turned around and ran back to the man. He was wearing a couple sweaters even though we were in the middle of a heat wave. I stood over him and couldn’t detect any rising and falling of breath. “Sir, excuse me.” Nothing. “Sir?” I was about to reach for his shoulder when I spotted a flicker of his eyelid. He opened his eyes. “Are you okay, sir?” He rolled to his side and looked up at me with pleasant yet dazed eyes, his grizzled cheeks fuzzed with grey stubble, “Yes,” then gently rolled back. “OK, sorry to bother.” I’m glad I went back. I’m glad I called him sir.