Once upon a time I was in a very frazzled and vulnerable state. I was leaving a coffee shop and about to hop on my bike to head over to a bar to watch the Steelers game. A homeless guy named Joe^[1] started talking to me.

He said I have a nice bike. I thanked him, said I love biking, and asked if he bikes. He said that he does but that his bike had recently been stolen which makes him sad. I mentioned that I’ve had bikes stolen too and we vented a bit about bike theft.

Then he confessed that he’s actually stolen bikes before. And furthermore, that he’s tempted right now to steal a bike. His old bike was stolen and he really could use a way of getting around. But he’s trying really hard to be a good person and doesn’t want to steal anymore.

I found this to be impressive and inspiring. I imagine that in a state as desperate as his it’d be really, really tempting to rationalize that bike theft is justified. And hey, maybe it is. Regardless, I know that I rationalize tons of things when it’s convenient and I’ve never been nearly as desperate as he is. So yeah: impressive and inspiring.

Anyway, he proceeded to confide in me about some of his life difficulties. I smiled and explained that despite surface appearances, he and I are actually not all that different. We looked at each other and I’m not sure which one of us took the initiative, but he ended up asking me if I want to talk, and I said yeah. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do.

Joe hustled over to the exterior seating of the coffee shop where he had all of his belongings. He started clearing space for me to sit. It was as if it was his living room and he had shit everywhere. As if he wasn’t expecting to have company and was trying to be a good host.

We sat down and started talking. He agreed to go first since I was a little nervous. He was strong.

He told me his life story. I won’t go into the details, but it’s a lot of stuff that you might imagine someone on the street to be struggling with, and more. It’s what Woody Allen would categorize as “the horrible”.

Then it was my turn. There was something I had been holding on to for a few weeks and itching to talk about. Something that was really driving me crazy. I considered confiding to Joe about it but it didn’t feel right. The pocket knife, dissociations, history of violence and antisocial personality disorder might have had something to do with it.

Anyway,...

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