I took myself out to lunch today before work as I usually do, and as I walked into the restaurant, I overheard a group of people snickering about “crazy, smelly old bum” who was sitting at one of the corner tables outside talking to himself. I placed my order with a young girl at the register who clearly wanted him kicked off the premises.

Maybe through a mixture of boredom and curiosity,  I chose my seat 2 tables down from the old tramp and I discovered that he wasn’t mumbling to himself at all. Rather, he was reading from a book that was slightly hidden in his filthy old backpack on the table in front of him. He was reading very well and in a strangely pleasant voice about an old man suffering alone on the bank of the Mississippi River – reminiscent of Siddhartha laying next to the river before Govinda stumbles upon him.

It was all actually quite warming and equally melancholy. I sat and ate quietly and tried to ignore the fact that hidden in the chapters he softly spoke was likely a very personalized cry for help. And even now I felt as if every laugh and joke and dirty look issued from the front of the restaurant was like another surge of water causing this old bums own river to overflow. Even I, being too late for work for any kind of discourse, paid for my meal and walked away in silence. But looking back over my shoulder, I could picture the river overwhelm him and drag his body away.