Warning: Horribly Depressing Story Follows

This is a real downer and you might not want to read it.

On the way to work this morning, I heard this story reported. A few blocks from where I live, a homeless man was doused in gasoline and lit on fire.

The multitude of disturbing things about this are obvious, and I was affected by those just as anyone would be. But my level of disturbed-ness multiplied when they said where this had occurred, and I realized it was eight blocks away. And then I realized that I had walked past this man.

We have two grocery stores in walking distance from our apartment, and last fall I would walk to the one at Vermont and Western. That walk is a fascinating trip into a land of Korean storefronts and El Salvadorean restaraunts nestled between dark and cave-like dive bars. It's not an area I would walk in alone at night, but during the day the trip is always interesting.

I would walk past this homeless man, whose name I now know because of the gruesome way in which he was killed. He was large and always sat on the sidewalk. He did not look good. It was clear to me that he needed medical attention, as seems to be the case with more of the homeless population in this city than in any other I've visited or lived in.

He never asked me for anything and didn't seem to be begging, but I never gave him the chance. I treated him as I usually do in this situation - quickly, head down, avoiding eye contact, giving him as wide a berth as the sidewalk would allow, all the while feeling horrible about myself and society and wondering what would happen if I called him an ambulance.

In Atlanta, I knew where the shelters were. There were at least five places I knew I could direct people, one being the homeless shelter at the church I grew up in. I spent a good number of mornings in high school getting up early to serve breakfast at The Open Door Community and another church that did a pancake breakfast for downtown Atlanta's homeless population. My family's Christmas tradition still includes a sunrise breakfast on Christmas morning with the guests at our church's Night Shelter. I vividly remember a family friend of ours talking about how he always gives money when he can, because you just don't know what they need, and he was willing to take the gamble on what they might spend the money on. I respected that mindset, and even though I didn't usually give money, I could at least give information.

In Los Angeles, I have no idea where the homeless shelters are. I don't know what kinds of services are available. A quick Google search confirms what I already thought was true - Los Angeles has the largest homeless population in the United States.

I am embarrassed that my response to these people who are obviously in need of some assistance is to duck my head and walk faster. There are a few occasions when that decision has to do with being a woman and getting some sort of "danger" feeling, but that is just a small percentage of the time. Usually I just scoot on by, plagued by guilt and shame for about 45 seconds until I move on. The guilt lasts longer if I happen to be carrying a Starbucks cup or lunch from Baja Fresh.

I'm not currently in a position to give money to people - I'm no longer in the position to buy coffee at Starbucks or eat lunch out. But I was involved in Atlanta in ways that required no monetary commitment, and though I knew that my actions were a small drop in a giant bucket, it at least felt good to be a drop.

I'm touched that people who live around me and are probably raising families on salaries lower than mine reached out to John McGraham, the homeless man that I never knew had piercing blue eyes because I never made eye contact with him. What happened to him is unspeakably horrible, but is just another of the horrific inhumanities unleashed on the outcasts of our society as we drive our cars and drink our coffees and scuttle past with our heads down.

I will do my part. The least I can do is make eye contact and acknowledge a fellow human being sharing our world.

I'm sorry, John. May the next life be kinder to you than this one.