There was something striking about him. His condition was obvious. The coat upon the coat tightly fastened about his torso, the knit cap pulled down over is ears, the heavy boots carefully and tightly laced and disappearing beneath the trousers but over the sweat pants. The canvas duffle bag, navy issue and now navy surplus was tightly packed and stood upright over his head above the strap that passed around his shoulder.

First I saw him heading east across the I-75 bridge on the Fairmount Highway. His face was down against the buffeting wind. His steps were labored as the wind that day grew hard, hard and wet and cold.

Stopped at the light I watched him and took in his demeanor. He had not that haunted look of the street person, nor did the wrinkled face of the perpetual drifter seem to accentuate his countenance. Rather he seemed confident, in control, determined, of purpose. And yet, somehow, there was a hint of confusion a drizzle of impatience.

The light changed. I passed him as he transverse the bridge, a lonely figure beside the ever moving population of those with somewhere to go. My rearview mirror framed his progress until I dropped beneath the plain of view. And he passed from my thought.

Errands were run. Tasks were accomplished. All went fast. The phone did not ring. No one stopped by. Soon I was in the car heading back in the direction from which I had come.

He was walking west on the same road, headed back in the direction from which he’d earlier come. His face was not as deeply dipped. The wind was resting from its howl. He walked with duffle bag still upright and attached to the same shoulder. With purpose again he moved now toward the west and town. Neither traffic nor traffic light impeded my progress. Soon he was but again a moving reflection in the rearview.

A quick trip to Office Depot and the bulletins were printed. Down the road the grocery store was not busy. Down the aisles I pushed the cart retrieving beans from here and pork loin from over there. Cheese was down on the side aisle just after the milk. Even the voice of the computer at the self checkout seemed friendly, and not once did she ask me to wait for an attendant. I left both and headed east again on the highway.

And again he was heading east. This time he was at the end of the bridge. I should have taken a left. I took a right. I pulled into the convenience store, parked the car pointing toward the street and waited. He came. Duffle bag stood tall from his shoulder. Shoulders were hunched. I got out.

“You need a ride?” I asked as he approached.

“Who, me?” he asked pointing to his chest.

“Yes, you,” I said.

He stared at me for a silent pregnant moment. “No, I don’t think I need a ride. I don’t know where I’m going.”

“You need some money?”

“I don’t take charity.”

“I have some church bulletins that need folding. Want to help?”

He stared a moment. “Sure,” he said. At my invitation he put the bag in the trunk. We headed to the church. He was a fast folder.

The last time I saw him he was headed west across that bridge again, with a twenty in his pocket and food in the bag.