Fully Equipped

This is a copy of an essay I gave students who were writing descriptions of the person they have chosen to make their Independent Project this term; they had to choose someone from a different culture, racial, educational, or economic background from their own. I have written about a homeless man whom I have befriended over the past few years.
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I remember racing to catch the train after a day of teaching as an adjunct all over the city, and as I was trying to skid across Callowhill and 17th Street, a very dark skinned man hollered for me to watch out; a monstrous SUV was careening around the corner, just about to hit me. I waved to the bedraggled man who stood over the warm vent and realized that he must be one of those roving homeless men. I decided to pay closer attention to this specter who haunted that particular vent; he was alert, well-equipped and jittery.
I realized he was alert the next time I walked from the train when he recognized my hat and called out to me, “Hey, I like that hat,” he yelled as I came closer to him. It was a knit hat of bright colors and patterns and a tassel on the top. He waved to other people as they walked past his vent. I thanked him for looking after me when I was racing across the street, and he began to yammer about the traffic and the location. His grin was big but cavernous because his front teeth were missing, and his jaw flapped when he spoke too quickly, which he did when he began to talk about his bicycle that he’d propped up against the wall.
He was fully equipped at that vent. The bicycle gave him quick transportation, the extra blankets helped warm him in the bitter, cold nights, and the vent served as a quasi oven to heat the food that he’d strewn all over the pavement. He had hung extra clothing on the wall to dry in the brilliant high noon sun, and a plastic milk carton propped again the wall served as his bureau.
Although he was alert and well-equipped in his little corner, he was jittery and jumpy as he babbled about his having been set on fire by some other homeless guys. His thin legs and arms dangled and shook as he explained why he was here instead of in one of the many shelters in the city. His face twitched several times, and the energy of his conversational endeavor sent spit spiraling into my face. He said he didn’t drink or “do no drugs,” but he got hungry out here, which surprised me when I noticed the vent loaded with half-eaten sandwiches and containers of food. I told him I’d bring him a sandwich the next day and began packing extra peanut butter sandwiches that I’d drop by the vent as he snoozed into the late mornings.
That was two years ago, and I realized that since then I’d seen him rarely. The corner of 17th and Callowhill had been cleaned up, his bicycle was missing, and the vent was free of blankets and food. Where was he? When I volunteered down at the Ministry 300 to serve meals to the homeless, I kept an eye out for him, but did not see him. When I walked to and from the train to school, I never saw him on his perch until last week when I saw him standing up, jumping up and down in the cold, mismatched mittens flapping from his hands, and I asked where he had been. His twitch was worse, and he moved incessantly. “They” had stolen his bicycle, he said, and things were bad, real bad. Even though I had my sandwich with me, I promised him one tomorrow and left, feeling guilty and glum.
The next day he wasn’t there.