So this morning we invited a homeless person into our apartment.
That was how I woke up: I heard a voice in the hallway, and then my wife's voice, laughing and then: do you want a cup of coffee? I think my husband is awake.
Schmutzie swung into my view. I've invited someone in for coffee. He was drying his feet by the radiator in the hallway. I think he slept out there last night.
This is the start of any good Flannery O'Connor story. A non-religious but decent couple play the Good Samaritan and get destroyed for their pride (masquerading as kindness). That's the O'Connor path to Grace, I guess.
— What is... who? Do we know him?
— I don't think so. I get a good vibe from him though.
— I am not wearing pants.
And there he was, giving off good vibes: brown jeans, boots, a puffy hooded green jacket and a brown nylon touque pulled down over hair that could likely use a wash. His eyes were bright blue and slightly buggy. From his chin sprouted a thick goatee that jutted outward two inches from his face. He seemed completely unfazed that he was standing in a stranger's home.
He also seemed unfazed by our living room, which had a queen-sized bed in it and a half-asleep pantsless guy under the covers.
— Hi there. My name's Trevor.
— Hi. I'm just going to put on some pants.
Over the next hour and a half we sat around and drank coffee. Trevor had just been kicked out by his girlfriend, his car had broken down and work had run dry for him. It was pretty much the Hard Luck Trifecta, and I would have suspected that he was spinning a story for sympathy if it hadn't been for his unassuming manner. The strangest moment came when he told us that he was an avid ballroom dancer. When he left, he invited us to a dance session in a church basement.