ADVERTISEMENT
The neighbors noticed him too.
Mrs. Alvarez from apartment 3B would pull her grandson closer whenever they walked past.
A couple from the fourth floor once crossed the street rather than pass his bench.
Someone apparently complained to the building manager.
But because the bench was technically on public property and the man wasn’t threatening anyone, there wasn’t much anyone could do.
“He hasn’t bothered anybody,” the manager told me.
“Yet,” I replied.
That word stayed in my head.
Yet.
Sometimes, late at night, I’d peek through my curtains.
And he’d still be there.
Sitting beneath the yellow streetlamp.
Head tilted upward.
Looking toward the second floor.
My second-floor window.
I started keeping my curtains closed.
Then I started checking the locks twice.
Then three times.
One evening, around ten, I heard a faint voice outside.
I looked through a narrow gap in the curtain.
It was him.
Mumbling.
I couldn’t hear the words.
He seemed to be talking to himself.
That made everything worse.
I told my mother about him over the phone.
“Call someone if you feel unsafe,” she said immediately.
“I don’t want to get a homeless man arrested just because he’s sitting outside.”
“Then don’t. But don’t ignore your instincts either.”
I promised I wouldn’t.
For the next several weeks, nothing happened.
He simply remained part of the landscape.
The bakery.
The pharmacy.
The bus stop.
And the strange man on the bench staring at my window.
I eventually learned his name from the coffee-shop owner across the street.
Daniel.
Apparently, he’d been living rough for years.
“Does he cause trouble?” I asked.
The owner shrugged.
“Never in here.”
“Then why does he sit outside my building every night?”
The man’s expression changed slightly.
“I don’t know.”
Something about the way he answered made me wonder whether he knew more.
But he turned away before I could ask.
Then came the worst Tuesday I’d had in years.
ADVERTISEMENT
