The sky looked like it had been crying. That didn’t seem to stop the throng of locals from paddling out past the reef until they became specs on the watery horizon, waiting patiently like sharks for a good wave. I was at Ala Moana Beach Park, wishing I had brought a sweater, feeling like the ultimate wuss for being cold in Hawaii. And feeling like the penultimate wuss for not owning a surfboard.

A husky man with a shiny dome for a head sat in deep concentration at one of the tables behind the lifeguard station. Ala Moana is a well-known bum haven in Honolulu, but all the bums I ever saw were always asleep, so I didn’t immediately realize that the man was homeless himself. He was working with a needle and thread, muttering quietly to himself in a rather content manner as I approached. The piece of cloth he was stitching appeared to be a shard of an old dress or woman’s coat – fuchsia with sequins.  The man was sewing little accessories onto the cloth with what appeared to be great purpose.

His coat was what tipped off the bum-radar. Although the muttering should have cued me in also. It was an old military jacket with several pieces of thick pink rope sewn in random spots, the collar worn with years of abuse.

I had to speak in order to get his attention, even though I was standing over him, “What are you making?” I asked.

The man looked surprised, then worried, then confused, and then emotionless again all in about a half second, “Oh I’m just working on some stuff,” he replied, returning to his piece of cloth. His accent confirmed my suspician that he was African and not American of Afrian descent. Although his voice hinted at being in the states for a long time, he still had the hearty tone of a true child of Africa.

After some prodding, the man opened up, telling me that unlike most bums (my word, not his), he liked to keep busy and work on projects during the day. He was homeless, but had a mission to sew.

“It’s good to be busy. I’m pretty good at sewing, too,” he confided.

I couldn’t determine exactly what it was he was sewing, and he seemed to either not want to tell me or to not really know himself. He did, however, tell me about his jacket, “As you can see I made some modifications to my jacket. It’s a used one from the Salvation Army, but I spruced it up with these here,” he pointed to the pink rope. “And I added some pockets, too, because they never put pockets where I want them.”

I didn’t want to bother him too long, being busy and all, but I did want to know his name before I made my way up the damp hill to my apartment. When I asked his name, his eyes got wide, and he looked around nervously.

“I… uh… uh…” he sighed a sigh that said I can’t think of a good fake name and I guess you’re probably not a threat, “My name’s Abraham.”

“My name’s Shane, and it’s great to meet you Abraham. Good luck on your work!” I waved as I turned to leave.

Abraham relaxed, looking like he’d just been acquitted from trial. Realizing that I was just some kid and not a cop or con man, he cracked what looked like the ancestor of a smile and called, “You have a good day!”

And I concluded that while the stigma exists that bums are entirely indolent, that stigma is wrong. Many bums do work, just in their own way or in the only way they know how. How can society tell them they can’t do that if they want to? Abraham looked surprisingly happy to me. Happier than a lot of rich people I know.

Share on Facebook