curbside pickup

I notice him on my way in, he's got no shoes and his feet look horrible. Homeless feet. Swollen, cracked, purpleish-red. The kind that have walked too far for far too long.

Me: Looks like you could use some shoes.
Him: Fuck you.
Me: Dude. (I duded him with my special WTF? version)
Me: (trying again) did you just tell me to fuck myself?
Him: Don't tell me what I need.
Me: Ah..see, I wasn't so much telling you what you need as making an observation. Your feet look like they hurt. Do they hurt?
Him: Yeah, they hurt.
Me: I work here. I might be able to help.
Him: You must be doing a shitty job. I'm still homeless. Look around. Lots of people are still homeless.
Me: Dude, some days I agree. But it's a big job, homelessness.
Him: You should still do a better job.
Me: I agree. Want me to start with you? How about coming in to see the nurse. Maybe we can find some shoes. Or you know, I can take my half assed homeless helping self elsewhere if you've got other things to do.
Him: Sorry for being an asshole.
Me: We are all assholes sometimes. Now stop being an asshole and help me do a better job.
Him: I guess it's the least I can do.
Me: I'd say.
Him: I didn't really mean to say fuck you. I am just tired and sick and my feet hurt.
Me: I know. Let's see what we can do. And I trust you'll tell me if I do a shitty job at it.
Him: I suppose I can do that. (He's cracked now, a half smile even. I've got him. We're rolling)
Me: Good. Now get off your ass and come with me. I've got a reputation to work on here.
Him: (chuckling) You alright, girl.

We are both alright, friend.