"I'M SICK OF IT!"
He was screaming.
"I! CAN'T! TAKE IT ANYMORE!"
He was homeless, young-er, sobbing.
He was sitting along The Mag Mile, an expensive shopping district in Chicago. He was leaned up against the side of a Topshop, his clothes in stark contrast to the high-fashion window display above him.
He wasn't well. His hands were peppered in sores. His legs were bandaged. The red was seeping through.
He was holding a cardboard sign:
“I'M EVAN. PLEASE HELP!” He had nice handwriting.
"Hi, Evan," I said.
He looked up. There was an abscess on his neck. His eyes were kind.
"Hi," he said, wiping his cheeks.
I gave him some money.
"I'm sorry about all this," I said.
"Thanks," he said. "But I deserve it."
"No," I said.
"Oh yes," he said. "Things could've been different."
"What do you mean?"
"I was a musician," he said. "I was in a marching band."
"What did you play?"
"Percussion.”
"What happened?" I said.
(It just came out. I don’t know.)
He looked at me, bad. "Fuck you care, man?"
I backed up. "Sorry," I said, and turned around.
"I FUCKING QUIT!" he called out.
But I was already up the block.
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