The Gift of Your Attention

I was sitting outside Starbucks sipping a coffee the other day, minding my own business and watching people go about theirs. I like to people watch. Not to scrutinize, though I am guilty of occasionally poking fun at strangers fully realizing I’ve been the unknowing subject of others’ jokes before. I like to watch people because it makes me a better writer. Being still and allowing people’s behaviors to wash over me without dissecting their motivations and goals helps me write more engaging and realized characters.

So there I am outside the coffee shop, sitting at a round metal table for two, sipping my Starbucks and letting the world pass me by. I was there for thirty minutes when a homeless man sat down at a table next to me. There were other tables available. It wasn’t crowded.

Bill, as I’ll call him, I never learned his name, was a black man. He seemed to be in his sixties but it was hard to tell. He had a beard which he keep itching. He wore a drab olive jacket, some dirty jeans and a pair of red Converse All-Star shoes. The shoes caught my attention because one was wrapped in duct tape. The other needed it. He kept digging through a stained tote-bag, apparently looking for something, and quietly talking to himself.

We ignored each other for a little while. I kept watching people. He kept whispering to himself and digging through his tote-bag. After a few minutes he stopped digging, placed the bag on his lap and let out a large sigh, as if it took a monumental effort to stop exploring his bag. He then slowly turn his chair in my direction and asked me, “What are you doing?” He emphasized the word you. I gave the answer of an introvert unwilling to engage in uncertainty at that moment, “Nothing,” I said. And took a sip of my coffee, for closure and to cover up the lie. I was doing something.

“Good day to do nothing,” Bill said. He had a baritone voice which surprised me. I figured him for a high speaker. “Yeah,” was my lame reply. “Everyday is a good day to do nothing huh?” Bill was poking me for more. “Nothing is good,” I said, punctuated with the final sip of my coffee. My cup was empty now and a thought resounded in my head. Your cup is empty man. Go get more. It was a good excuse to escape my uncomfortableness. See ya around Bill. I can’t take not knowing what to do with your presence. The thought embarrasses me now. It must have then too. I didn’t get up to fetch more coffee.

“Nothing’s all a lot of us got,” Bill said. I thought Bill may have been making a philosophical statement. Maybe a single sentence treatise on being homeless. That thought embarrasses me now as well. Bill was in fact referring to his sister.

He didn’t wait for another of my lame responses. He dived straight into his story. How he came to Birmingham from Mobile to see his sister who came up here because her house was destroyed by Hurricane Katrina. How he didn’t know how he was going to get back to Mobile. How he didn’t care because he liked Birmingham. How he used to live in New Orleans, near the French Quarter. How he had relatives in Baton Rouge and what a shame it was that people without money were being forgotten about after Katrina. How his momma would tell him tales when he was a kid of growing up poor in a segregated south. How his momma died when he was twenty. How the South is given a bad rap by the rest of the country. How he liked Birmingham. How he meet Fred Shuttlesworth in this city when he was a kid. How he didn’t know how he was gonna get back to Mobile. Bill told me his story for twenty minutes. I didn’t say one word. I mumbled a few “Uh-huhs” and “Oohs” but not a word.

After Bill had emptied his tank, he stood up, shook my hand and said, “Been nice talkin’ with you brother.” He walked away, down the sidewalk, his tote-bag swinging from his hand, turned a corner and disappeared. His duck taped, red All-Star Converse shoe was the last thing I saw of him. I went inside Starbucks, ordered a coffee to go, went back outside, walked down the sidewalk, turned a different corner, hopped in my Truck and drove home.

I’m prone to fits of thoughtfulness and I tend to relive the experiences I have had, for better or for worse. It’s been a couple days since my encounter with Bill. I can’t say my experience with him is a defining event of my life. I may not remember it in ten years. Or maybe I will but he’ll be white, not black, and we would have met at the grocery store, not Starbucks, and he would have told me about his family in Tallahassee, not his relatives in Baton Rouge. The details are unimportant cause Bill helped me make a realization. Bill helped me remember something important. Something I owe him a debt of gratitude for.

Bill reminded me that people crave attention and everyone wants someone to hear their story. I’ll explain by way of my process.

As I drove home from being talk to by Bill I wondered why he didn’t ask me for money. I expected him to. I kept waiting for him to and I kept wondering what I’d do when he did. All I had on me at the time was a debit card. If I told him I didn’t have any money it’d be an honest answer, though not the full truth. I did have money. What I didn’t have was paper and metal currency. So, would I tell the convenient truth and leave it at that or would I offer to buy him something. What do you buy a homeless person? Food? Water? I didn’t know and I had to fight off my insecurities and uncomfortableness in order to sit with Bill as he told his story.

It soon dawned on me that though I was surprised Bill never asked me for money, I was also surprised that something had compelled me to sit with him. I never did excuse myself. I never did take the opportunity to refresh my cup of coffee and sneak away. There was something about him that made me fight off my uncomfortableness and listen. I didn’t know what it was. It’s not like I’m a Saint. I’ve ignored my share of homeless people. Most people do.

I stopped thinking about Bill when I got home. There was mail to open and it was time to walk the dog. By the time I was out the door with my pooch Bill was forgotten, cleansed from my mind. My Bill-free mind last about twenty minutes. Something happened in the park that brought the whole experience home for me.

When I walk the dog I usually stop in a nearby park to let him run around. We both hate leashes and I’m of the opinion that dogs should be off them as much as possible. So while Kotter was running around the park being a dog, I took it upon myself to people watch again. I soon noticed two females talking excitedly to each other. They were obviously engaged in some debate. It looked heated, but friendly. And then it dawned on me. I understood what had compelled me to sit with Bill.

I had sat and listened to Bill because he had wanted someone to hear him. Bill didn’t want my money. He wanted my attention. Bill wanted his story to be heard. By me, by anyone. He simply wanted a moment of companionship. That’s why I sat with Bill, because something told me he wanted my attention and my companionship. I was giving Bill what he needed. My attention. I think it’s what many homeless people want. Your attention.

I think homeless people often stop strangers because they want your attention. Sure money’s nice but if you could get over the uncomfortableness I think you’d find they also want you to listen to them. They want human contact. They want to be noticed. Imagine living a life invisible to everyone else. Imagine if everyone stopped acknowledging your existence. You’d soon be craving contact. You’d soon be hungry for attention, for someone to listen to your story. But what if no one listened to it? I couldn’t imagine living a life that no one was interested in.

I mentioned this to someone, my story with Bill. They said Bill, if he was homeless, had other homeless people to tell his story to so why did he want my attention. It’s a good question. I said I think it has something to do with living with ghosts. If you spend all your time living with invisible people at some point you’re gonna want one of the visible ones to acknowledge you. You”ll want one of the visible ones to confirm that you’re indeed alive and have a story to tell. My friend said this sounded awful, like I was special and they weren’t. I agreed.

Everyone wants to have their story told. Everyone wants someone to hear it. We’re in such a rush these days. Everything is moving faster. We’re all working harder. We’re all working longer. Sometimes the greatest gift you can give another person is your attention. Allowing another person the space to tell their story is loving that person as who they are, not who you would have them be.

I can’t take credit for giving Bill this gift anymore than Bill can take credit for helping me remember an important truth. I didn’t know I was doing it. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing either. It was only in retrospect that I realized what I was giving Bill. While I can’t take credit for my gift to Bill I can assure you in the future I’ll think twice before ignoring someone who has a story to tell. I don’t have to enjoy the story and I don’t have to agree with the story. The power is in the attention. The gift is in the space you give. The love is in the act of listening.

Postscript: I mentioned Fred Shuttlesworth in my story above or rather Bill did. He’s a revered Civil Rights figure down South. In the same pantheon as Martin Luther King. You can read a little about him on Wikipedia and if it strikes your curiosity I’d recommend you read Parting the Waters by Taylor Branch, an excellent book on the Civil Rights era.

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