The Sepulveda Man

I saw him often. He always looked the same. Faded blue jeans, loose tan jacket, worn tennis shoes and a baseball cap pulled low over his face. Tall and thin, white hair and chin stubble, he nevertheless appeared to be strong--sure-footed--but I suspected he was homeless.

I live in the hills near Mulholland and the 405, and spend my days driving the stretch of Sepulveda between Ventura Boulevard and the Santa Monica Freeway, with my big yellow dog in the backseat. I came to think of him as The Sepulveda Man, because that is where I always saw him. Climbing from the Valley floor. Entering the Mulholland tunnel. Rounding the curves between the Skirball and Getty centers. North or south, morning or evening, rain or sun--always walking on Sepulveda.

I noticed him about three years ago. I always wondered if he was walking to something or someone, or if he walked because he had nothing else to do. I wondered who he was, where he came from, where he was going. I came to expect him on my daily jaunts. He became a part of my day, familiar and reassuring. A friend, really. And every now and then as my dog and I approached, he looked up at us with eyes that were a brilliant blue.

Because this was the routine, I was surprised to see him one summer morning in the flats of the Valley. Surprised because he was so far from the curves and hills of Sepulveda. Surprised because he apparently walked much farther each day than I had ever imagined. As I drove past, he looked directly at me and I nodded. And in that moment, a connection was formed. Something had taken place. I didn’t stop or speak, but I vowed that next time I would.

Several months passed and it was two days before Thanksgiving. The day had been difficult because nothing had gone according to plan. I was frustrated, tired and running late. I still had to walk the dog, a ritual typically shared earlier in the day. So before we reached home and the hills of Sepulveda, I stopped the car in a neighborhood that we had never walked.

We moved down unfamiliar streets, turning this way and that, my dog taking her time, me urging her on, when a woman ran toward us, pleading in broken English. She pointed, explaining that someone, a man, was sick or dead. I followed. The man’s tennis shoes-clad feet were in the gutter, his baseball cap pointed to the sky. I realized I knew this person.

I rushed to a nearby house and called 911. My dog and I hurried back to where The Sepulveda Man lay in the shade of a giant magnolia tree. As we approached, his blue eyes flickered with recognition, then closed. His chest heaved, his mouth fell slack and his body sank. I knew I could do nothing but wait with him, my dog sitting patiently by my side. We kept our silent vigil until the paramedics arrived. Probably a heart attack, they said. And I wondered, did he enjoy walking? Or did he walk to wear his heart out? In any event, he’d needed to stop. Waiting for the pain to subside, he had fallen back on the cool grass and waited. I only hoped he had not had to wait too long.

I watched in the quiet of the afternoon as the wind picked up and leaves scattered and the three paramedics attended his body. I was struck by their gentleness. We began to talk. They asked the same questions about him that I had asked myself for years. When they discovered an ID in his jeans pocket, they did something very kind. They showed it to me. They knew that I felt responsible for this man, and that knowing his name would be important to me.

We stayed, my dog and I, until his body was covered, lifted onto a gurney and placed inside the ambulance. As the vehicle pulled away, I realized what had happened that day months before when our eyes met. The connection had been an agreement. I knew that his soul had asked my soul to be with him at his death. And I had agreed. When that time came I was led by chance to him. When he knew the blond lady with the big yellow dog was there, he let go.

In the days that followed, I made phone calls to the police, the paramedics. I called the coroner, who informed me that no one had claimed him. I left my name and number just in case. I hoped someone might miss him. I hoped someone might want to know what had happened--where he was found, if he said anything. But no one called.

I have thought of him often, especially now that the holidays are upon us. I wonder at the mechanism that brought us together. I hope my quiet vigil eased his passing in some small way, and I am thankful that he did not die alone. I am thankful too for a new awareness that has reshaped my world. For I cannot help but compare my life with his, and I am humbled by my good fortune. I have never been a happy person. There’s far too much sadness in the world for me to be happy. But I have my moments, and I have learned to seize them. Moments with family and friends. Walks with a big yellow dog. My mother’s “I love you” on my voicemail. The endless errands and obligations that give my life structure and purpose.

This is the stuff of which life is made. Small moments strung together like pearls in a necklace, creating a thing of lustrous beauty. Although I miss the stranger, whose death taught me much about life, I am comforted that the experience we shared was a profound moment that has left me transformed and enriched. And for that--for The Sepulveda Man, my friend--I am truly thankful.