Two years later, he’s still in the neighborhood sitting at various bus stops and benches, carrying his life’s belongings in two fat, layered plastic bags. Instead of reinforced carry-alls, they’re tattered grocery bags.
Tall, heavyset, he’s a nice-looking man. The gleaming, ruddy face is always freshly-scrubbed and it never looks dour or sad; it’s calm and compliant, and sometimes, it’s cheery.
He doesn’t appear to drink alcohol—not that all homeless people do, but often that’s the “assumption”. And he never asks for change. Nor does he speak to anyone, including himself. Maybe he’s wise; it’s not easy to tell. But he is vigilent, and aware of all.
When he’s not sipping a beverage from that elegant red-rose teacup, he’s perusing bookstands or magazine racks. In the wee hours of the morning, he can be found at the local 24-hour grocery store, browsing between aisles for tht one perfect “deal”.
We all have a story. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in his. But it’s not for me to know and I’m not that impolite or inquisitive to request it. Maybe, though, one day he’ll share it.
For the interim I’ll continue place change on top of one of those fat bags when he’s not looking. Somehow, I suspect, he’d prefer it that way.