I am pacing on the Barstow Street sidewalk. It is 10 minutes to showtime. The room is full. The street feels hot. I always do this. I worry. How can I make this the best night possible? A hug? Handshake? Hanging back? Whatever it requires. I want to pick the right one. No. I don’t want to. I have to.

I am not in charge. No one thinks I am. No one asked me to be. I am not even performing tonight. But this is comedy night at The Plus. I was here at the beginning, three and a half years ago. When it was nothing. I’ve watched it grow. I have always loved comedy. And now I love this city. I feel like the best man at the wedding: comedy and Eau Claire. I am holding the engagement ring. If I lose this thing, screw this up, do something wrong – it will be all my fault.

A homeless man walks up to me. I know he is homeless because he tells me. Not now. I need to think. He smiles. Out of obligation, I smile back. He asks if I will read something he wrote. He seems very nice. So I read his poem.

It is 10 years ago; I am working in Minneapolis. My job is to go into the homes of people with disabilities and mental health diagnoses to help them with day-to-day needs, big and small. Appointments. Basic health care. Financial planning. Goal setting. Crisis intervention.

One client is an HIV positive African immigrant who he has been homeless for years. My agency finds him housing. He and I drive throughout the metro area to donation centers. We pick out furniture, a bed, pots and pans: all of the basics for a home.
He moves everything in by himself on a weekend. I see him in his new apartment the next Monday. He is always a cheerful, but today – seeing him not in a shelter, not at a coffee shop, not in the hushed corner of a public library, but in his home – is a moment of real and profound joy. He gives me a tour. He shows me his apartment with beaming pride.

He offers me a soda or a bottle of water. I want to accept. But there is a rule. No employee can accept anything of monetary value from a client. It feels very rude, but I politely decline. I am not thirsty. I still accept a glass of tap water, just to be nice.
I take one drink. He cries.

He came to America from a refugee camp. Everyone knew he was HIV positive. No one would shake his hand. No one would touch things he owned. No one would touch him. He carried such shame. He did not matter.

All I do is hold a glass in my hand, bring it to my lips, and drink. A completely simple, almost meaningless gesture. For me this is nothing. For him, this is access to humanity.

I still feel rude for not accepting the soda or the bottle of water. Until now, I was too naive to know the extent of the cultural stigma he faced.

He was moved to tears by something so simple.

I think about this day a lot.