I went back to the spot under the overpass where people apparently find lodging against inclement weather. Kindred and I dubbed it The Homeless Penthouse Suite. You have to duck precariously low to get under the first beam, but it's remarkably peaceful under there...once you learn to tune out the cars hurtling down South Wilmington Street a few feet above your head.
One of my finds was a fairly pristine copy of a Joel Osteen book, Become a Better You. The irony was not lost on me. It occurred to me that if the book was any good, it wouldn't be in the "front room" of an overpass penthouse suite. But then, neither would its reader.
Back at the shelter, I watched a new guy lovingly cleaning his Chuck Taylors. They clearly weren't new, but he wiped them with affection and care. Noticing the attention of another resident, he shrugged, almost to himself. "I got to take care of them. These shits the only I really got." To me they were just a fresh pair of kicks. To him, they were a reason to take pride in his appearance.
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