The White Man

Absorbing sunlight on his dark, leathery skin, he is warming himself from a cold winter's night.  Long black hair is pulled back into a ponytail as he nestles into his fleece-lined brown leather coat.  He stands tall above the others and a broad nose with prominent cheekbones highlights his Native American blood.  With his head held high, he not only looks stoic, but also appears to be the exact replica of the model used for the classic Buffalo Nickel.

But, his home is being homeless. 

He is inside a roadside bus shelter, sharing it with others who are actually there to ride the bus.  He is a lean man of few words but when he speaks, it is slow and deliberate--a voice from a wise elder.  People are naturally drawn to him and without asking, money is handed to him that he collects to quickly spend on cheap beer.

"I'm an Urban Indian," said Nathan when I ask what tribe he belongs.  Later, he shares his ancestry is Lakota and that he is originally from North Dakota. 

His adult son, crossing the street, had been hit by a car twice in two weeks.  The first resulted in a broken leg, the second involved multiple injuries, including a broken back.

"When winter breaks, we will return to North Dakota, " Nathan begins.  "Seven years, I've never been hit by a car.  I always wait for the white man."

"White man?  What white man?" I ask.

His gaze, unchanged, is forward and he does not answer.  I patiently watch him, interested in his thoughts and actions.  He stands silently and soon raises an arm and points with a crooked finger, "That white man."

Turning my head, I expect to see a police officer on the corner across the street, but it is empty.  Seeing nothing, I again ask, "What white man?"  Nathan does not answer but keeps his bent finger up, still pointing.

The crosswalk signal changes to a red hand in the halt position and I figure it out.  Nathan's "white man" is the crosswalk signal for "go" which is a walking stick figure illuminated in white.  I find his quizzical riddle interestingly deep and entertaining.

"Can I ask what is in North Dakota to finally have you leave after seven years?" I question.

"Life," was Nathan's simple reply, still gazing forward as if in a trance from the past.

"Well then, what is happening here?" I had to ask.

"Death..." is the last word from Nathan as I depart, wishing him good luck.

I sincerely hope when winter breaks he and his son find new life up in North Dakota.