Imagine You Were Me

He sat in the bus shelter, wearing a greasy-looking beanie, a bushy beard, and a long coat. He’d spoken so casually I thought he was asking for money.

“I don’t have any money,” I said. And it was true. I had a packed lunch and a debit card with twelve dollars. 

The man shook his head. “I just want you to imagine you were me. All I did was seek medical attention after a cop shot me.”

“Oh?” I was curious now. 

He opened his coat and lifted his shirt. A fist-sized scar scowled from the side of his stomach. I winced, pulling my own coat closer against the chill morning air. 

“I wasn’t hurting anyone,” the man continued. “Just trying to make the rent. But you know the ironic part?”

I shook my head.

“Couldn’t pay rent while I was in hospital. I got evicted and lost everything.” 

“Aren’t there laws for that?” I asked, frowning. 

The man shrugged. “I’ve learned that the people who are meant to protect you — they’ll fuck you every time.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. And I was, but my bus was rumbling up the street and I didn’t know what else to say.