The Black Pop of Hoover Street

He's in his late sixties, though his face bears many more years. His white-shaded moderately-groomed beard on his dark black wrinkled face give away his story. At first sight, you might presume he is a homeless person as many folks around. Well, I don't believe he is. You see him sitting on the bus stop bench, his back bent over, his head hanging towards his torso; sleeping. How could anyone sleep like that -one might think- ?. Pop, tell me, what have you had to endure to be able to doze off that uncomfortably? How was your life, old fella? What sort of days have you had to go through to end up here, bent over to sleep?

A day after day, same spot, same bending, my neck cracks when I see you, pal. I sense the pain telegraphed to my spine by merely contemplating your posture. Look at me, pop! Look at me! How could you do it! How do you keep going? No, the question is why! Why man?! Why do you keep going? How do you fight the urge to throw your weak skeleton in front of the coming traffic? How in hell's name do you keep winning that fight? Why do you do it? Why do you keep doing it every day? How do you conquer the natural tendency to kill oneself? Don't you hate your life? Don't you hate your first breeze of fresh air in the morning? Don't you detest the pain in one's chest rebelling against one's life? I am certain you loathe your life, how couldn't you? So why do you keep carrying this backpack around? Why do you save it next to you and wait? What are you waiting for? Tomorrow? How will tomorrow be different than today? Or yesterday? Tell me, pop. Reveal your secrets! Yesterday, you had to sleep in the street with your neck facing the dirty sidewalk with your head hanging over like the outcome of a faulty guillotine. Guess what happened today? SAME! Tell me, pop, I beg you. How do you do it? Why do you do it? I can't do it anymore, my friend. I need your secret. You leave every evening heading to work; that is the only explanation. You return in the afternoon, you place your backpack on the bench next to you, and fall asleep! Stop it, my friend. Please stop it.

The other day I saw you stepping out a car. Some gal was dropping you off at the station. You were smiling waving farewell to the child in the back seat. Is this your daughter and the child is your granddaughter? What did you tell her? That you take the bus home from there? Doesn't she know? You didn't tell her, didn't you? I know your type; You're a hell of a fighter, pop. But she doesn't care, my friend. She never asked to come see your place. Or did you lie? How could you cover up homelessness from your own daughter? How much effort did it require to cover up? Again, the main question is why? Why would you do it?

Why do you keep doing all that? Didn't it ever occur to you that you could end all of this? No more pain, no more backache, no more street sleeping. No more lies or covering up. What are you looking forward to, my friend? What will change? And how? I need your secret. My life is way better than yours, pop. I apologize but this is the truth. I have endless potential and opportunities ahead of my young ambitious eyes. If I resist the urge to end it, I would go far in the abyss of nothingness we call life. I see myself doing it. Though I can't. I can't, my friend. I can't live till tomorrow. Some days are too difficult to live through. The pain in my chest is excruciating. Existence is pain, pop. Tell me your secret. I beg you. Take my hand, pop, and guide me to your light. What do you see that I can't. Are you smarter than me? No, it is statistically improbable. How do you see the light that I am blinded from! Show it to me, please. Nothing makes sense anymore, my friend.

You win; I concede.