We can't let this be this young man's life

All I could think about was I needed a pair of flat shoes as Itipped down State street headed toward Marshall Field's. "Miss.Would you be interested in buying something?" the young man said ashe walked up to me holding a cardboard box in his arms.

My first thought was this must be some sort of scam.

Peering inside, I saw plastic tote bags filled with the kind ofproducts I normally buy from a bath or beauty supply store.

"This isn't stolen merchandise is it?" I asked. "Because I don'tbuy stolen goods."

"No. I am selling this wholesale for a company," he said.

He looked as if he had a grandmother who used to rub his face withvaseline before sending him off to school.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, looking over his shoulder."Don't the police harass you out here? Why aren't you in school?"

"I'm not smart enough to go to school," he said matter-of-factly.

I was stunned by his perception of himself.

"What do you mean you aren't smart enough," I said. "Of course,you're smart enough. You are standing out here selling stuff on thestreet."

Then I really looked at him.

He looked back at me through eyes lined with lashes long enough tocurl backwards. A clean white business shirt peeked out from a casualspring jacket. He wore a tie and his shoes were shined.

"What's your name. How old are you? Where are your mother and yourfather?" I asked, extremely curious, but also because I was drawn bysomething I saw.

There was innocence in his eyes.

He wasn't hustling me. He wasn't begging. But standing on StateStreet trying to sell lotion and bath oils from a cardboard box to aharried woman with tender feet should not be his life.

"I've been in foster care most of my life," he said, again matter-of-factly. "My mother's out here somewhere. I don't know my father."

I reached into the box he had put down on the ground and pickedout one of the product-filled sacks.

"How much is it?"

"Ten dollars.

"How much do you get to keep?"

"Between $2 and $1.50."

"Look at this," he said, opening a box that contained a candle ina jar topped by a small figurine."

I learned his name is Chris. He's 18.

We talked as we walked to the nearby Walgreens because I didn'thave any change.

"What about school?"

"I graduated," he said, giving me the name of the high school andthe neighborhood he lives in. "I wanted to go to Harold Washington,but I couldn't pass the test."

"Of course, you can pass the test," I said. "Look at what you aredoing. I couldn't stand out here like this. This has got to be hard."

The more I looked at Chris, the more I felt disappointment creepover me. He made me anxious and self-conscious. He made me angry andsad. He made me want to cradle his head in my hands like I do my 21/2-year-old grandson.

I kept thinking: This just can't be this young man's life.

We can't let this be his life.

There are a lot of boys named Chris out here.

It was easy to ignore them when they were taken away from theirhomes and placed into foster care. The only time we were forced tothink about them was when some horrible story about an abusivesituation became public.

But now they are visible.

They have been left to make their own way in the world.

Because of the epidemic of drug use in urban communities, many ofthese young adults have been raised without the support our own kidstake for granted. Yet despite the odds against them, here was a clean-cut Chris standing on State Street trying to earn an honest buck.

"Well, where do you live?" I asked fearing the worst.

"I live with a cousin," he said. "I'm trying to find a job, butthis is all I could find. It's OK. Our managers are out here doingthe same thing."

But it is not OK for an 18-year-old to believe selling goods on astreet corner is all that he can do.

Chris was asking for a handout, but he could clearly use a handup.

"Here's my number," I said. "Give me a few days and let me see ifI can find someone who can help you get in school."

We exchanged telephone numbers.

I looked back once to see Chris walking briskly across the street.

When I got back to my office I put the tote bag filled withtoiletries on my window sill. It will remind me not to forget aboutChris.

E-mail:marym@suntimes.com