A couple of times a week, I go to the local grocery store for food and other essentials.
Occasionally, I see homeless individuals and families asking for money. The customary request
begins with, "Do you have some change?" I usually do, so I give whatever is in my pockets. I
avoid reaching for my wallet, fearing I might be injured or that it could be stolen.
Today, during my routine trip to the grocery store, I noticed a man sitting on a curb in front of a
smoke shop. I pulled into the parking spot next to him and lowered my truck window halfway.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
"Good," he replied. I felt secure, sitting in a 3,000-pound truck with a steel door between us.
Something about him made me feel safe, so I asked more questions. He looked like he was in
his thirties, of average height, and reasonably clean. His overgrown beard was scraggly and
unkempt. He wore a yellow parka, a ball cap, jeans, and hiking boots. His front teeth were rotten
and gapped, but he looked healthy and willing to talk.
Feeling more comfortable, I cautiously reached into my pocket, took out my wallet, and gestured
for him to take a five-dollar bill. He stood up and walked toward me. I stayed on guard. He took
the bill, folded it, and slipped it into his jeans pocket. I rolled my window down all the way and
continued our conversation. As we talked, I noticed he understood my questions and answered
them coherently and intelligently. There were no signs that he would harm me, and my fear
eased.
"Where are you from?" I asked.
"I was born in Williamsburg, Kentucky, but I’ve spent most of my life in Texas," he said.
I picked up on how he viewed his lifestyle and avoided using the word "homeless." Instead, I
asked, "Where do you live now?"
"In town, in a tent under a bridge," he replied.
I noticed his bulging backpack and assumed all his belongings were inside. "What brought you
to Shelbyville?" I asked.
"I'm on the road a lot, and since I was born in Kentucky, I spend a lot of time here," he said.
"Where did you grow up?"
"I lived in Texas with my parents and brother until I was nineteen. Then, I started living on the
road."

By now, I was in my comfort zone, ready to ask more questions. Before continuing, I studied his
face and body language. He looked tired and uneasy. I could tell he was fearful of me,
embarrassed by my questions, yet willing to talk. I wondered if the five-dollar bill had anything to
do with it.
"Why did you leave Texas?" I asked.
"I was adopted, and my parents died when I was nineteen. They had Agent Orange. The house
my brother and I lived in was left to me, and he was angry. He didn’t want to live with me, so he
burned it down. Since I had nowhere to live, I hit the road."
"Did you graduate from high school?"
"Yes."
"What kind of work have you done?"
"I worked at McDonald's."
"Are you working now?"
"No."
"What kind of work would you like to do?"
"I’d like to go to college to become an electrician."
I could tell he was getting tired of my questions, but I wanted to ask just a couple more.
"Do you have enough money for food?"
He nodded yes. I realized he didn’t want to answer any more questions, so I thanked him for
talking with me. He picked up his backpack and quickly walked away. I wondered if I had
pushed too hard or if he was just eager to spend the five-dollar bill.
I pulled out of the parking spot and picked up my wife, who was standing in front of the grocery
store with a full cart. On the way home, I told her my story and how a real-life experience is the
best way to learn about homelessness.
Once we unloaded the groceries, I headed to my laptop to write this true story.