It was cold last Friday as I came up the Metro escalator. I was debating about working out at my apartment building gym vs. going home to change and then going outside again and walking to the “real” gym. Not working out was not an option; it’d been a long day and long week at work, and I needed to clear my head.
Then, there he was, a man selling newspapers. “Oh, Streetwise!” I said, starting to dig 
through my billfold for a couple of dollars. “You must be from Chicago,” he said. “It’s Street Sense here.”
I allowed as how yes, I had spent most of my adult life in Chicago. I explained that I work in an area of DC where we don’t get much street traffic other than tourists headed for the Jefferson Memorial so I wasn’t aware of Street Sense but I’d always enjoyed Streetwise. As I started looking through my pockets for bills, he asked, “What’s up with Chicago, anyway? All those murders.”
We exchanged theories. Few legitimate job opportunities for uneducated or undereducated young African-American men. Drugs. Politicians who say they get it and offer solutions, but don’t follow through. Finally, I came up with five dollars.
“The great thing about Streetwise was that the vendors got a chance to write and I think sometimes even served on the board,” I said. My new friend smiled and nodded. “I’ve got an article in the next issue, about how I got off drugs and off the streets,” he said. He visibly stood a little taller, a little prouder.
“Oh, that’s great!” I said. “I’m a writer too.”
He told me his friends and the editors liked his work, and want him to write more. “But I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t want to write about politics or finances or anything like that. I’m just a man, back on the right track and trying to stay there.”
“Maybe that’s what you should write about,” I said.
He smiled even more broadly. “Maybe you’re right. Hope to see you here next Friday. Have a good weekend.”
We exchanged names and shook hands. And somehow, some of the stress between my shoulders about that long day and week at work was gone.
