Every morning I ride out along the river. The path runs through a couple subways that house a bunch of homeless people huddled up in their blankets. Most of them are still asleep, through the rain and in the cold. I ride by unblinkingly.
The last lap of the route is through an affluent, well manicured quarter of the city. There today, I passed a man sitting on the pavement. He was dressed in a grey suit. His shoes and belt were matched in the same tan brown. On the parapet wall behind him was propped an Attaché case, also in the same tan brown. His good suit was streaked in patches with mud and dirt. He had a head of blond curls sunk between his folded legs. I and a couple other cyclists rode past him. Not unblinkingly.
I stopped and rode back to him to ask him if he needed help. A handsome face rose from between those soiled grey pants and looked at me, confused. The look turned into a stare. The stare went on, and on............and on. It went on so long that I was half expecting it to end with a punch landing in my face! Instead it ended with his expression relaxing into a resigned kind of smirk. And a slow deliberate 'No.'. When I turned around I realised the other cyclists had stopped and waited. They carried on only when I did.
As I rode on I wondered how my mind sorts.
The homeless people that I pass by everyday need no help, they belong there.
A man in a good suit sitting on the pavement. Wrong.