Twice a day, five days a week for the last sixteen months I would see him, sitting in the same place doing the same thing – nothing – except on occasion sleeping.
Today I see a homemade cross where he always sat. A cross made of sticks and flowers wilted by the sun, stuck in a bed of dirt littered with cigarette butts. A cross constructed by the homeless for the homeless.
He was an extremely obese very black man. I wondered sometimes if he was homeless because of his weight or if the state of homelessness was a contributing factor for the extreme amount of weight on his frame.
I never stopped to inquire before. I never gave a dime or a damn. But today, I stop.
“He was killed with a brick in a fight for a blanket”, they said.
His name was Travis. That’s all anybody knew about him.