Given enough time, relentless rain has the power to turn a tranquil brook into a raging river; it can have a similar effect on a person's mood. I needed to get under a roof. The rain had been pouring for ten straight hours. I decided to take advantage of a fast-food chain's free Wi-Fi and indifference to loitering, which was why the homeless man was sitting there.
I chose a seat at the table behind him, positioning myself to share the only power outlet available.
"If you need an extra outlet, let me know," he said. "I have a three-way splitter." A baseball cap covered his long, unwashed hair, his beard dappled in gray. The pockets of his cargo pants and vest, which he wore over a plaid flannel shirt, were bulging with who knew what.
"Actually, I don't think this outlet works," I replied, noting that he was unknowingly running on battery power. Frustrated, I slid my laptop back into my backpack, its battery drained. Sensing my mood, he took it upon himself to seek assistance from the employees, hoping to get the power restored.
"They don’t know how to turn it on. But hey, maybe you can help me with something. Do you know anything about computers?" The end of the word computers carried a faint hiss due to his missing teeth.
"Fixing computers used to be my full-time job," I said.
He promptly set his laptop on my table and sat next to me. "I can't get some of the pages on my website to come up."
It did surprise me a little that he had a website, but who didn’t these days. He clicked on a link labeled "Definition of Akashic Records," and waited expectantly for the page to load.
"My name's Bill, by the way," he said, extending a weathered hand.
"Hi, Bill. I'm Ryan," I replied, shaking his hand.
Bill’s gaze settled on my large backpack, giving away my new transient lifestyle, "So, where do you call home, Ryan?"
For some reason, I wanted to keep this aspect of my life a secret. "Well, right now, nowhere, really" I said. "Just living out of the backpack for a while."
"Oh, a fellow poor man!" Bill exclaimed, a glimmer of camaraderie in his eyes. "I spent a lot of years on the road, too, but I have a room at a shelter right now."
I hadn't meant to imply that I was homeless like he had been. I was merely houseless with no plan on the horizon to call any place home. Yet, seeing the immediate change on his face to one of authentic joy to be sitting with another penniless wanderer, I couldn't bring myself to shatter the illusion. Besides, there was something strangely comforting about the instant connection we shared, and with my soaked clothes, backpack, and scruffy appearance, I looked the part.
"I got this computer for fifty bucks from a guy," he said, shifting the conversation. "All I use it for is updating my website, but see, some of the pages aren't coming up." He turned the screen toward me, revealing a loaded essay titled "Letter to Oprah," while "Dreams of Prophetic Nature" failed to load.
"Hey, can I get you anything? A hot chocolate or something?" he asked.
"No, I'm fine. Thanks, though," I said. "So, you’re typing out your blog posts on a typewriter and uploading them as PDFs?”
"Uh, well, there is a typewriter at the shelter," he said. "I type up my essays there, and then I have someone scan them onto a CD so I can upload them to my website.”
"They would load a lot faster if you just typed them right onto your webpage."
“What I'm doing usually works fine, but I don't understand why some don't come up."
"Well, it's because some of the files are really big. They do load eventually, but you have to wait a really long time."
"But they're all the same size."
"I don't mean physically bigger, like on the screen. I mean that some files contain more data than others, so they take longer to load."
"But look," he said, taking control of the laptop. "My essay on the 'Definition of Akashic Records' has fewer pages than 'Baseball Stories #61', but it doesn't come up."
"When I say data, I don't mean the number of words. There are other reasons why a file size might be larger. The Akashic Records file, for example, has scanned pages from books in it. Also, it may not be as compressed or it could have been scanned with a higher resolution."
"I don’t understand anything you're saying. I’m not a computer expert. I need yes or no answers,” he said, starting to get irritated and raising his voice slightly. “Why does a file with less pages take longer to load?”
"That isn't even a yes or no— Look, let's do this. I'll install a free program that can make the files smaller.”
"Okay, but is it really free? Will it charge me a monthly fee or something like that?"
"Nope, totally free."
"Hey, I appreciate your help with this," he said, switching back to his friendly voice. "Are you sure I can't get you something? Maybe a hot chocolate or an ice cream cone?"
"No, I'm fine. I do appreciate the offer, though," I said, focusing on the laptop.
"Here, take this," he insisted, secretly passing me three dollars under the table as if it were a bag of reefer.
"I'm not going to take your money, Bill."
"It's alright, look, I'll still have this," he said in a hushed tone, revealing a ten-dollar bill. "I get money from the government because I told them I was schizophrenic, but I'm not really. I just said that to get money. I don't feel good about it, but a lot of guys were doing it."
I was moved by his willingness to share nearly a quarter of all the money he had. While I had occasionally given money to a few homeless people before, truth be told, I usually walked past them, pretending not to hear their pleas for spare change.
As I clicked through the software installation, I felt his eyes studying me, like there was something on the tip of his tongue that he was debating whether he should say. Finally, he broke the silence, "You know, I started this website because I’ve had some experiences in my life of a prophetic nature that I have found coincide with Biblical prophecy…”
I casually surveyed the room, self-conscious about how this conversation might be construed. Our eyes met briefly, but he looked down at the laptop like he was afraid of seeing judgment in mine.
"If you don't mind, I'd like to tell you my testimony," he had the expression of a spelling bee contestent waiting to find out if they spelled their word correctly.
"Sure, I don't mind. Go right ahead.”
He flashed a relieved smile, and adjusted in his seat.
“I believe God is always trying to tell us things; it’s just a matter of deciphering the message. One way, I think, is through people, like my ex-wife. She had a natural psychic ability.”
His tone changed as he told his testimony to one of rehearsed confidence, the monotony of his delivery reminiscent of lines recited in a high school speech class.
“We shared the same birthday, but I was two years older. When we first met, I was twelve, and she was ten. Playing with some older kids outside, they said I was to be her ‘horse.’ They were going to throw her onto my shoulders, and I was to gallop away, but when they threw her up, I did something I didn’t plan to do. I ducked. She fell to the ground and didn’t move,” he said with wide eyes. “I stood there, looking at her on the ground, appalled at what I did. I couldn’t speak or think, or even breathe,” he said, his gaze fixed on the distant memory of his future wife lying in front of him.
Suddenly he became more animated with a subtle spark in his eyes, and he continued, “Then she was swept up off the ground and was now bouncing back and forth on both feet prophesying. She said, ‘There would be a tornado in Massachusetts that will strike down the cross on a church’s steeple. People will come to you, William, and they will tell you that you did it.'”
He paused again, this time searching my eyes to ensure I was keeping up. "Do you follow so far?" he said, waiting for me to confirm before he continued.
I nodded.
“Then she said, ‘This will be within three days of the Waco, Texas massacre. In that same weekend, during the O.J. Simpson trial, Superman will fall from a horse and be paralyzed from the neck down.’” He leaned in slightly, emphasizing each detail, his eyes wide with conviction. “I want to point out now that, during that time, O.J. Simpson was only sixteen years old and had never met Nicole Brown. And Christopher Reeve had not yet, or even thought of, starring in the modern Superman movies.”
His gestures grew more animated. The restaurant continued its usual activity, but his voice gained momentum. Despite my attempt to stay focused on compressing his files, I couldn't help but notice the occasional curious glance directed our way. Whether real or imagined, I felt a sense of self-consciousness, acutely aware of our shared space when he’d say something louder than the surrounding chatter, like, “I had dreams and visions for the next few days about the coming rapture!”
Across the aisle, a guy lost in a book, tapped his coffee cup. The sound was barely noticeable amidst the buzz of conversations, fryers beeping, and the door frequently swinging open, letting in the sound of the city. Bill, though, can’t take his eyes off that cup.
“When Waco was burning, I was behind bars for decking a cop,” he starts. “But that’s… Uhh.” Again his eyes flick to the cup. “Umm, what was I saying again?”
“Decking a cop,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to get into that and get sidetracked,” he said, realizing I might form the wrong impression. “I’ll just say the cop got too handsy with my wife. Well, but not in a sexual way. She was running from—” His eyes darted to the tapping cup again.
Finally he yelled, “Sir! Could you please stop doing that!” Turning back to me, like, “Can you believe this guy?” but with all the other sounds, that quiet tapping wouldn’t have registered with me at all if Bill wasn’t so fixated on it.
Now, I’m wondering if Bill, who seemed nice enough before, is actually a threat. His once kind dark sunken eyes now seemed like those of a chronic insomniac and maybe a bit Manson-like.
The tapping guy glanced around, like he wanted to see who Bill was yelling at, but his cup stayed quiet after that.
Bill, in the midst of his prison tales, wove a connection to what he believed were prophetic events. He spoke of a newspaper headline about Waco, Texas, bearing the words “Blood, Fire, and Pillars of Smoke.”
“These words come from the prophecy of Joel in the Old Testament, second book of Acts,” he said, and from memory recited, “‘In the last days,’ sayeth the Lord, ‘I will pour out of my Spirit onto all flesh. Your sons and daughters will prophesize. Old men will dream dreams and young men will see visions. And I will perform great and mighty signs and wonders in the heavens above, and on the earth below blood, fire, and pillars of smoke.’”
There was a pause, as though awaiting my gasp of disbelief. It seemed reasonable that a clever headline writer intentionally used a known Bible quote as the headline. I didn’t give Bill the reaction he wanted, so he forged ahead.
“So I stepped outside the prison and shouted to a stormy sky, ‘Hey, Lord God Almighty! Are you up awake up there? What does this all mean? Do you know the time down here? Is this the end times?’ No response. Frustrated, I start yelling at God, demanding answers. I even said I’d stop following him if he stayed silent. Suddenly, five guys passed by, asking if I could zap a cross off a church with lightning, because I did! While I was shouting at God, a bolt of lightning struck the steeple and knocked off the cross. And those guys blamed me! And then it dawned on me; this was all part of my ex-wife’s prophecy.”
Bill fished out a dog-eared Bible from his cargo pants, its cover worn out, with ragged post-it notes poking out of the pages.
"Johnny Carson said a joke once that was like, 'What is the difference between Superman and O.J. Simpson.' Johnny Carson answered, 'O.J. Simpson walks!'"
I raised an eyebrow, finding it a bit out of character. "Johnny Carson said that?"
"Here, now read this." He opened the Bible, slid it to me, and tapped at a verse highlighted in yellow. "Now, read this."
The verse said:
"Listen, O my people, to my instruction;
Incline your ears to the words of my mouth.
I will open my mouth in a parable;
I will utter dark sayings of old,
Which we have heard and known."
Bill was all eyes, waiting for my response. "Do you see?" he asked.
I returned a slow and noncommittal single nod of the head.
"I doubt Johnny Carson even knew how prophetic this was!" Bill exclaimed. I silently concurred, but felt very confused. Our conversation had gone on for over two hours. I finished with his laptop a while ago, so made up an excuse about the hostel closing at eleven, though it wasn't true.
"Oh, I've stayed in some shelters like that too. Yeah, they'll lock you out. But the webpages are coming up now?" he said. "Can I just try one before you leave?" He clicked on the link to his essay, "Goat and Dog Fight.”
He pointed at the screen. "This essay is another end times prophecy that my ex-wife foretold. She said that near the end of days, there would be a highly publicized goat and dog fight. I didn't know what it meant, but then in 1998 Evander Holyfield fought Mike Tyson.”
“Yeah, I remember that fight well,” I said.
“Well, then you’ll remember that Holyfield did what a goat would do in a fight and kept butting heads with Tyson. Then what did Tyson do? He did what a dog would do in a fight and bit Holyfield's ear."
The essay loaded much more quickly. "Ah, there it is," he said. "Thanks for your help. Hey are you sure I can't get you anything, an ice cream cone or some French fries?"
"No, really, I'll be okay," I said.
"Here," he reached into his wallet again, contemplating for a moment while I readied myself to leave.
"Take this," he said, but this time he handed me the ten-dollar bill.
"I appreciate it, but I actually have some money. I'll be fine."
"Hey,” he softened his voice. “I know what it's like out there. You have to learn to accept someone's help now and again. Look, I don’t know why, but I think God is telling me to give you this."
"I really do appreciate it, but I'm not going to take your money, Bill." I stood up to leave. "There's one thing you can do to help me, though," I said. "Do you know how to get to Fenway from here? I'm not sure how to get back to my hostel, but I know how to get there from Fenway."
My labyrinthine exploration of Boston made finding my way back feel like solving a Rubik's Cube. Complicating matters further, Boston streets occasionally change names.
”I don't know, but I'll help you find out," he said. Together, we stepped outside into the drizzling rain. The few remaining city lights shimmered on the damp streets and sidewalks. A woman approached us, her head down.
"Excuse me, ma'am, could you help us out?" She walked past us, seemingly oblivious to our presence—a maneuver I recognized, having used it myself on numerous occasions.
"Sir!" he yelled to a man across the street. "Could you tell us how to get to Fenway?" The man didn't acknowledge us either. "Let's go in here, they'll help us." He led me into an office supply store. I began to remark on how people had ignored us, but it appeared not to faze Bill.
"Excuse me, I wonder if you could help this young man find his shelter," he said to two women behind the counter. I never referred to my hostel as a "shelter,” but Bill seemed unaware of the distinction.
"I know it's by Fenway. If you can tell me how to get there, I’ll be able to find it." The woman glanced at Bill, then shifted her gaze to me. Her expression seemed to silently question, "How did you get involved with this man?"
"Why don’t you just take the subway?" she said.
"Oh yeah, why didn't I think of that?” Bill said. “And you can just use my card. I have a card that lets me use the subway for free.”
“Are you sure that’s okay?” I asked.
“Yeah, I'll just have to wait twenty minutes before I can use it again, but I don’t mind,” he said. I didn't intend for Bill to go through so much trouble. With a landmark as renowned as Fenway Park, I assumed he could simply point me in the right direction.
I felt guilty refusing Bill's gift of ten dollars. Although I didn't need the money, I understood the satisfaction of helping someone in need, and a part of me wanted Bill to have that. Yet, accepting money from a homeless man didn't sit well with me. The offer to use his subway card allowed him to assist me without directly giving me money. It was a compromise that made us both happy. I followed Bill outside and toward the nearest subway station, passing two homeless men seeking refuge from the rain under the awning of a closed business.
"Hey, Bill," one of them sitting in a wheelchair called out. "The other day, you mentioned wanting to talk to me about something, but you never told me. What was it?"
"I'll tell you later. Right now, I'm helping this young man find his shelter," Bill replied.
"Which shelter are you staying at, Sojourner? Nazareth?" the other man asked with a friendly tone.
"No, well, it's actually a hostel," I said.
"Oh," he said. I suddenly felt like an outsider. For a moment, I sensed that if I were homeless like them, we would have instantly connected, similar to how Marines treat fellow Marines they've just met, as if they were family.
Part of me wished I could forget about the hostel and see what it would be like to follow them to a shelter. However, at that moment, I only thought about how I had already paid for the hostel and left some things in my room.
"The subway is over here," Bill said. "I'll get you on the train then go back to talk to him while I wait the twenty minutes when I can use the card again."
We crossed the street and descended the stairs into the subway tunnel. "That man in the wheelchair, he wasn't always paralyzed," Bill said. "He had a house and a wife before he was hit by a drunk driver. He lost his job, then his house, and then his wife left him."
Whenever someone complains about our welfare system or advises against giving money to homeless people, I think of Bill and the man in the wheelchair. I’m definitely not an expert on how to solve homelessness in America, but spending a few hours with Bill was enough to change my perspective. Many people experiencing homelessness are victims of overwhelming circumstances."
"What I wanted to talk to him about was the prophecy regarding Christopher Reeves,” Bill said.
And some are schizophrenics that no employer will ever hire.
Bill swiped his card at the subway turnstile and passed through. "Wait, weren’t you going to let me in with your card?" I asked.
"Oh, I forgot. I'm sorry, you'll have to buy a ticket at the kiosk," he said. "It's two dollars, here let me give you the money."
I was not going to take his money. "It's okay. I'll just use my credit card."
"You have a credit card?" he asked, surprised. I avoided Bill's gaze and walked over to swipe my card at the kiosk. I worried that I had just lost his trust. I didn't want him to view me differently now, like the man under the awning did.
I pushed through the turnstile, and Bill led me to the platform where we waited for the train together.
When my train arrived, I gave Bill a goodbye hug. “It was good to meet you, Bill. Thanks for everything,” I said. I meant it. I visited a dozen historical sites in Boston, but meeting Bill was the highlight, the memory from the day that would last above all the others.
“You too,” he said and patted me on the back.
Many people will dismiss Bill. Those who ignored him on the street won't be the last. I understand that he, like everyone else, is simply searching for the meaning of his life. Yet, people will hear his stories and dismiss him as crazy, just as I initially did. And maybe he is. But he is also the man who had very little but persistently tried to help me nonetheless.
I recalled a story I had heard years ago. I don't recall the details, but it was about an old man who gave ten dollars to a homeless person, even though he had little money to spare. He turned to his grandson and said, "Son, today we are rich." This puzzled the boy, as they themselves had so little, so he asked his grandpa to explain. The old man replied, "Because we have everything we need and still had ten dollars to spare."
Why didn't I just accept his two dollars? Why didn't I accompany them to the shelter? Bill's testimony hadn't convinced me of the rapture or prophecies, but he had taught me valuable lessons about compassion and not judging others based on initial impressions.