BANG! I heard the sharp smack of metal on wood as the back door of the theatre slammed open and walloped the side of the hallway. Feeling frozen, terrified, and desperate to flee, I bore into the wall in front of me hoping the people on the other side would burst through. Squeezing my eyes shut and clenching my fists did nothing to silence the thud of footsteps creeping up behind my tense body. All I heard was mumbles; an alien language I could not decipher. I pivoted slowly to face the six-foot-nine, dark haired, red-eyed, overly muscled monster that was growing in my imagination. One, two, three! My eyes shot open faster than any gun to absorb the scrawny, hunch backed, grey, scraggly bearded elder. Seeing that he was dressed in a mud stained beanie, and clothing that hung loose on his bony frame, did nothing to subdue my qualms. Instead of fearing this mysterious man harming me, I feared the terror this man held in his spiritless, sparkles eyes.

“Jane we have to finish cleaning the dressing- “ Sarah stopped her romp down the worn carpeted staircase to stare at the trash bag bearing figure just feet away from us. I watched as the eleven-year old, typically chirpy girl absorbed the scene delicately, as if afraid of hurting the man’s feelings. Silence etched on and on as the clearly dirty man frantically searched between our two faces. “Mum Shmur Dwa!” with a voice that startled us, as well as himself, the mysterious creature gurgled up sounds and forgotten words. Panicking, I began to back slowly away from the top of the second flight of stairs, where he waited and watched at the bottom. This is bad. We need to go find someone, an adult, someone who can handle this. Oh Sarah, please don’t! Too late, she did.

“Sarah, I really think we should go find our Moms!” I whispered imploringly. But never being one to miss out on making a new friend, Sarah edged her way closer to the shivering bundle of rags. Her pale blonde hair was still slicked back tightly from the performance finished mere hours ago, striking a stark contrast with the man’s untamable mane. Seeing her gung-ho smile, the roamer relaxed the tenseness in his shoulders and straightened to his full, five-foot-five height. Opening chapped lips to reveal a toothless, gaping hole of a mouth, he once again attempted speech. It wasn’t until he pointed to his hanging jaw that Sarah understood the message. “Oh! Do you want food?” she questioned enthusiastically. The light that suddenly leapt into his eyes was all the answer we needed.

Finally released from my prison of immobility, I plowed through the door leading to backstage. Dodging stray extension cords, leaping over props, maneuvering between microphones and lights, I hurried through the catacombs of curtains and burst onto stage. With the shadows and glows of stage lights cast off, the sanctuary lost the magic it had held during the show. I felt disoriented by the overly bright house lights as I frantically scanned the room for my mom. Finally finding her in a sea of moving sound equipment, vacuums, and busily working volunteers, I quickly recounted the tale of the homeless man. “I-was-waiting-for-Sarah-and-then-I-heard-the-back-door-open-and-I-thought-he-was-a-serial-killer-or-something-but-he’s-just-a-homeless-guy-who-can’t-talk-except-Sarah-tried-to-talk-to-him-and-we-found-out-he-wants-food-and-you-need-to-come-right-now!” Calm, cool, and collected, and without turning away from her conversation with one of the stage managers, my mother simply said “Okay.”

The five minute walk from one end of the polished wooden stage to the other caused my mom and me to acquire quite the parade. Five dance moms, my older brother, two overtired children, the city’s chief of police, one lighting guy, three sound guys, and everyone else in the sanctuary who wasn’t asleep, marched out with us into the hallway. Okay, seriously? It’s one man! Do we seriously need an army to get the poor guy some food? You’re all just coming so you don’t have to finish striking the stage. I couldn’t help but feel annoyed with the herd for trying to barge in on my exciting discovery. However, once I saw the look of terror on the poor man’s face as he took in the crowd, I immediately felt guilty for seeing his moment of vulnerability as my moment in the spotlight.

Hunched back, downcast eyes, and beanie pulled over his knotted hair, the hungry man was clearly uncomfortable being the spectacle of the curious crowd. My mom, older brother, and two of the sound guys guided him into a dreary alcove away from the rest of us. Sarah glanced at me, clearly worried about what would become of this man. The energy and enthusiasm he had showed when Sarah had mentioned food, was now completely drained from his weary face. He tried desperately to communicate with the four people surrounding him, but his voice was distorted even more in the thick of his nerves. Eventually, the adults realized the man was impaired and a piece of paper was brought out. After a few brief scribbles explaining that the building was closed for the night, the defeated intruder exited much more obviously than he appeared. With his large, almost empty, trash bag trailing behind him and his puppy dog eyes taking in the warm, bright hallway, the wanderer dissolved into the inky night.

Turning away from the haunting man, I was met with an expanse of empty space where the parade had been mere moments before. I found myself observing this space, taking in the paneled walls and high ceilings that defined the grand ole church. The decrepit building contained numerous programs, covering everything from a nursing home to my dance studio. I quickly learned that it was not uncommon to see two or three placeless souls come stumbling in, hoping for a hot meal. I also sadly learned that the number of people turned away day after day, was bigger than the number of people welcomed. If they were lucky, a homeless person could come in on a Sunday afternoon to find a seat in the too small soup kitchen downstairs. Otherwise, they were asked to leave. I will never forget that shriveled up, shrunken man I encountered my first year in that unkind city. With his ratty clothes, un-groomed appearance, and disorderly speech, I felt fear, and later pity towards him. Yet as I watched him drag himself back into the frosted parking lot without so much as a glass of water, I only felt shame. Shame because we had left him with less than he came in with; shame because we took away his final shred of hope. Even though I was not turned out in the streets to wander, I can’t stop wondering about the desperate vagrant.