A Red Headed Brother

When I lived in Paris, I encountered young people who did some time for drugs or petty crimes and when they were released, had no one to help them out. So they lived on the streets, and begged outside my local supermarket.

One such person was a red headed twenty year old with a baby face. He reminded me of my brother who was living an ocean away. So naturally, I wanted to help him. This usually took the form of a sandwich, a drink or, at easter, some chocolates.

The group of three or four buddies greeted me by name and a hug every time we met. They were warm but respectful. They didn't even ask for anything. They accepted what I offered. Occasionally, I gave them a coin if I was short on time. If I had time, I would chat with them and ask them questions about their past, their families, their plans. They still had hopes and dreams even though they were at such a low.

Several months had passed without a chance encounter. Then, one day, around Christmas time, I came upon my friendly red head. When I approached him, and was at about two feet from his face, I noticed that his dilated eyes were distant. He looked right through me. There was no light, no smile, no recognition in him. He asked me for spare change as he stumbled over his own feet. It saddened me.

The next time I met him, he was sober. I told him I had seen him and that he hadn't recognized me, and asked him, "Why do you drink?

His reply stayed with me because I could think of no argument to counter it. "I drink because it's cold living on the street."

Something told me that the cold he was referring to, was not just the temperature.