Shortly after moving into my present home nearly two years ago, I would often find myself driving south on Wyoming to run errands on weekend mornings and see him. Out of place in my neighborhood, he would be walking north each time- a middle-aged African-American man with short wiry gray hair dressed in a khaki jacket and khaki slacks with a full backpack draped on his shoulders. Tied up under the pack is a tightly rolled sleeping mat, and usually dangling from each strap is a plastic grocery bag with some personal effects. He was clearly homeless, and each time I’d see him, I’d wonder about his story. He obviously had a place he was staying at or in near my neighborhood, which is unusual since my neighborhood is just not a typical traffic area for people living on the streets. He also clearly had a pattern for his days, since when I’d see him, he was walking the same course at nearly the same time each time. When I’d be driving and see him, I’d always wonder about him.

This morning I went by the Cherry Hills Library Branch right when it opened to drop off a book, and to my surprise, once I entered the shelving area, I saw him sitting off alone in a chair in the reading area to the east. I hesitated, and then I decided it would be a good thing for me to do.

We talked for all of 5 minutes. I told him I had seen him in the neighborhood, and asked him if he was from Albuquerque. No, I’m from all over, he told me. I asked him where he was born, and I suspected I was being a little too inquisitional too quickly. He declined to name a place, but he was here now. Yeah, he had been in the military. He had not gone to college, but yeah, he used to work on computers and had a good job, and then things went bad. Yeah, he likes to read- he reads all the time, he tells me, and he smiles, betraying a straight and white set of teeth. He’s just had a hard time the last few years, so he does what he can to survive, but he reads a lot.

I tell him it’s nice to meet him, and ask him if I can by him lunch, offering him a $5 bill. I hope I don’t insult him, and that it is a gesture of encouragement. Sure, thanks, he says.

“My name is Bruce.”

“My name is Tony.”

“Nice to meet you, Tony. I’ll see you around here sooner or later again, I’m sure. Take care.”

Okay, thanks, he says, and he raises the newspaper he was reading as I walk by.

He’s Tony.