He was just sitting there, mesmerized, or maybe hypnotized, by the passing cars, head moving left to right, then back again, with each passing vehicle. He squatted in the middle of a square of bare concrete surrounded by a rusted metal frame. The semi-demolished carport sat on the side of an old house – the spot, along the side of the highway, in which he chose to rest.
He wore a long sleeve white dress shirt totally buttoned to the neck, tucked in black faded dress slacks which were probably too short when standing because they rose mid-calf as he squatted. His laced up brown oxfords were old and dusty from walking miles around the city going nowhere. His white socks had no elastic so that they draped down around his dark dry ankles. He looked neat and needy.
Sheryl noticed the thin black man sitting in 100 degree sun and thought he looked familiar. She turned at the next intersection and made the block. She thought she knew him, but she was going too fast to be sure. She slowly passed by him the second time and he watched her pass, his head going from left to right, then back as the next vehicle got his attention. She made the circle around the block a third time. This time even slower, and as she passed she began to cry.
He had been her high school sweetheart. He went to the Army and Viet Nam. She went to the university. His letters stopped. Her heart broke. She thought he was dead. Maybe he was.