Thursday night, January 12, 2006, downtown Indianapolis, Indiana. Unseasonably warm (50s), so not a designated “weather night”. That means there will be more homeless on the streets tonight. Four of us load up two vehicles with blankets, socks, hot soup, sandwiches, bottled water, coats, sweatshirts, etc. We make our rounds and it seems to be a typical night. These men are grateful and ready for a blanket, a hot cup of soup. The offer of clean, new socks brings big smiles to their faces.

Again it seems to be a typical night until we get to our last stop, a huge parking lot, empty of cars, but dotted with down and out men here and there. They flock to our cars, we get the soup going, blankets, gloves, hats, etc. There’s a few new faces but as I am waiting for the next “customer” to come to the blanket area, I turn and my eyes lock with a man I’ve seen many, many times. I do not know his name and only recall him as always being quiet, with tightly pursed lips. Seems like the only conversation I’ve ever had with him, centers around asking if he wants more soup, does he need clean socks? That’s what my mind remembers of him, one of the quiet ones, who move in and out of the crowd of men, getting what he needs from us to make it through the night.

But tonight——our eyes lock and his face lights up —a big grin creases his face. He does not take his eyes off mine for several minutes as he talks to me. “You’re the one who gave me the rat trap! Remember? When I lived under the bridge?”

I smile and nod, yes we gave out a lot of rat traps but again, this man has never engaged in any conversation with me over the past 15 months. He’s usually a quick customer, gets what he needs and moves on to make room for the next person. What has made him stop and think tonight? Why hasn’t this come to his mind on any of the other countless nights that he’s seen me?

I cannot take my eyes off his because he is wanting to tell me his thoughts. So I “drop” out of the busy volunteer group that is taking care of these mens’ needs and I take care of just this one man’s needs—for a few moments. I listen.

“I could NOT stand it when the rats jumped on my pillow when I was under the bridge.” he says. “I didn’t think they would bother you if you stayed still, but they don’t care.” The memory of the rats jumping onto his pillow as he tried to sleep steals away the smile on his face.

“But you brought me that great big rat trap and I set it every night. I was so happy when I would hear that ‘click’….yeah! Another one caught!! I was so happy to get that trap!”

“I still have it” he says. “I don’t need it sleeping here—-but I wanted to keep it because it made me happy.”

“Just call me Rat boy!” This whole exchange took less than 10 minutes and I marveled at the fact that for the first time he started a conversation with me—-and the fact that he has kept the rat trap—-not to use, but because it is a symbol of something that made his life more bearable. Of the very few “things” I have kept for sentimental reasons, nothing could compare to this man’s rat trap.

By Linda Cuff