Fly on the Wall

I’m home from San Francisco. One specific story stands out as a must-tell and strangely bizarre reflection of my visit. If you live near San Francisco, you might have heard of an infamous character named, "The Bush Man." Before I departed, a friend warned of a homeless man who was hiding behind fake bushes and attempting to scare the bejesus out of San Francisco tourists. I expressed hoping to see him so I could observe people’s reactions. My wish was granted. I got to see The Bush Man up close and personal at Fisherman’s Wharf, his location given away by a blood-curdling female scream. As soon as I heard the commotion, I thought, “Bushman!” and turned to see a scrawny, black scarecrow-of-a-man shaking leafy tree limbs while doing a little dance of joy for a group of bewildered tourists.  It’s important you know about this coyote-character, for it sets the stage for my story. After watching The Bush Man exchange, my family and I crossed the street and went into the Boudin Bakery, each exiting with a fresh mini loaf of butter-crusted bread. We walked down the sidewalk, ripping off chunks of warm bread and savoring our bagged loafs. Up ahead an old man hung over the rail while gazing out to sea. Perhaps enticed by the smell of fresh bread, he revived and turned to us while holding out his hand and mumbling something incoherently. We gave the man a wide girth as we passed, and he despondently swung back around to his perch. I immediately felt like a greedy cuss and walked back to the man, offering my loaf as a sort of peace offering. He startled and then smiled a straight-toothed smile and said clear as a bell, “I’m fine, keep your bread!” He looked at me with eyes no longer glazed in ‘drunken stupor’ and asked, “Where are you from?” in a tone implying I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. I gave the name of my small mountain town (I’m pretty sure I blushed.)  He smiled still broader, “Don’t fall for that ‘I’m hungry’ crap!” In all honesty, I’m ashamed to admit my first reaction was annoyance at having been tricked. In the next breath however, my bruised ego registered that this old man was not homeless, drunk, desperate or hungry (so I suspected from his obvious transformation). I smiled and said, “I’m glad you’re satisfied. You know how to pick ‘em don’t you?” He laughed and repeated his advice before turning back to the sea, “Don’t fall for it!” 

Compassion is one of my North Stars, and I got hoodwinked by a pretend homeless man, how ironic is that! What the heck was the point? Here’s the lesson I took away from the fako-drunk-homeless dude:  compassion has no limits and if genuine, desires no suffering even for an ego boost or sicko-fly-on-the-wall thrill. My San Francisco insight is a bit polly-anna-ish but helps me see my personal limitations to practicing radical, uncompromising compassion without exception. Thank you, Old-Man-Fly-on-the-Wall, for bringing the Mountain Bumpkin under the microscope and into a position of observation.