The downpour is lengthy, intense. The man slogs through, his T-shirt plastered to his scrawny frame. Over his shoulder, a garbage bag heavy with god knows what. He is barefoot, and the sidewalk is trash-strewn. He is underneath the parkway overpass, where I assume he’ll wait the deluge out, but he keeps going. Misery personified, I think, until I see his face. He is grinning.
Hours later I find I am still thinking about this guy I followed for thirty seconds from a car window. I can’t let him go. I feel compelled- maybe because I’m a writer, but probably just because I’m me-to contextualize him in a good way. I settle on a friend’s apartment just around the corner, with a working shower, clean towels, a spare pair of shoes. I want the grin to mean something.