Overpass Man

There is an old man who lives underneath the overpass near my apartment. He doesn’t have much: an umbrella, some bedding, a pillow made of cloth, an assortment of bottles and materials to help him get by… that’s it. Every day I see him at least once and he makes me feel slightly uneasy. It’s the feeling most people get when seeing the homeless: a feeling of pity mixed with the uneasiness of the different and unknown. Yet despite this feeling, I’ve grown fond of this nameless man.

Lately, I haven’t been seeing him. All I see is his bed, nicely made and untouched for what seems like weeks. What happened to him? It worries me. Every day as I approach the overpass, I find myself hoping that I will see him sitting there, and when I don’t see him, I get sad. I want to think that he has found a better residence with proper accommodations, that he is living a better life now. But there is always that alternate theory that looms overhead, the one where the man is dead. I really hope it’s not the latter.