Court Street

When I met Frank he was rolling small cigarettes with tobacco he'd foraged from the discarded butts of other smokers. I was pleasantly caught off guard when he told me I looked like a famous television actor (I do have a streak of vanity, I guess). As I tried to track Frank's thinking around which actor he thought I was, I suddenly realized this was going to be a difficult conversation.

Frank has some sort of mental illness and I was quickly reminded of how ill-prepared I was to talk with him. What is appropriate? I simply didn't know. Almost as quickly, Frank transitioned into a very lucid conversation about his mother and about his own physical illness that he struggles with everyday. Frank moved between this coherent conversation and his obsession with trying to figure out what movie star I could possibly be, with surprising grace.

As I sat next to Frank on a bench, he tearfully told me he needed food. I gave him a few dollars and he asked about my camera. I told him I like taking pictures. He said, "I knew it!" Followed by, " I've never had my picture taken." I responded by saying I could take a photo and show it to him instantly. He laughed at the photo and immediately began inviting passersby to "take a look at this!" No one took Frank up on the offer to look.

As I stood to leave, Frank said "What I need more than this (waving the money) is a hug. I ain't had one in awhile." I looked into his eyes and said "No problem." I sat back down.

Sitting on that bench, Frank and I hugged. People walked by and stared. I would have, too. We sat there grinning for a minute, not saying anything. I stood and shook his puffy, calloused hand and walked away.

Was that a hug? I guess so. I wondered what had just happened. I may never really know, I suppose, but somehow it all seemed right today on Court Street.