In the Night

As midnight approached, I dashed from the Omni Hotel—a guess at the quickest way around CNN Center, the route to the MARTA train. I’d come from a too-short evening, visiting too-seldom-seen, out-of-town friends. I hoped to make the last train. Winter rain fell hard on my head. I paused under an overhang to think again, before I’d gotten too far.

A beggar emerged from an alcove, breaking the empty-street spell. He shambled on. A man appeared, asking if I needed help. He shivered in his T-shirt and jeans, his blond hair a close-cropped brush. I glanced at the tattoos marching up his arms. His face belied the hard in his eyes.

He was returning home from the restaurant where he worked—also headed for the train. He tilted his umbrella, attempting to cover us both.

“Live in a halfway house,” he said. “One year so far, another half to go.” He'd spent 5 years in prison before that—convicted at the age of 18. I didn’t ask. He didn’t offer. But I knew a 5-year sentence plus so long a in a halfway house meant he’d committed a violent crime.

I, still in the mood of my earlier visit—the here-and-now and the transcendence of long-time friends—and he, beyond his usual circle, we spoke easily as we slogged toward and then waited for the train.

Mistakes. Redemption. Doubt. Hope.

We shared the train to King Memorial, and before he hopped off, I saw his eyes will catch up to the thoughts and kindness he offered that cold, rainy night.