He couldn't possibly have cared how he looked. Probably gave up on that idea long ago. Paused in the middle of the hill (And there's a cosmic joke right there. "Hey let's put the art school on the steepest hill in town. It'll be a riot to watch pasty little art kids struggling." I was in the best shape of my life - even better than the basketball days - climbing that hill everyday.) leaning on a generic mountain bike jamming grocery store cupcakes into his face, crumbs flying everywhere.

The scene could have been viewed as tragic. This leather-faced, rough-knuckled man in the winter of an obviously hard life, clad in threadbare Dickies (from before Dickies were hip), half tucked, loosely hung work shirt with a patch reading "Staff" above the breast pocket, half in the middle of the road gorging on cheap food, art school kids turning up their noses as they pass. He stood alone. He stood as the epitome of alone. His only break, his only free moment was there on his bike, on the hill, with the cupcakes. Those kids would cringe at half the life he had seen, half the work he had done.

But it wasn't tragic, because he didn't care. He wasn't the least bit phased by cars zipping past or kids shuffling by or by me reading too much into an ordinary moment. He finished his last cupcake, half-heartedly brushed away the crumbs, and moved on. Like always.