“Anything Helps”

There was no shade on the median. He held a weathered piece of cardboard in his hand, statements scrawled in permanent marker on either side. Red light: up and down the median he tread, stopping here and there for a few bills. Sun-soaked, his gray tank looked soiled, and the cargo shorts hung loose around his hips, begging to stay up. In my pockets I fidgeted for my wallet, and felt within them a lack of bills, then the light turned green.

No. 178