Shakedown

    He sits across from me, unkempt white beard shining with the drops of soup which had failed to break through to his mouth hidden beneath. The smell of his whiskey-tinged breath is, thankfully, overpowered by the scent of french fries, hot dogs and the onion soup that sits cooling in front of him. The small diner near my campus, in which we sit, is packed. Students file past in a line-up to reach the counter and place their orders. Outside the window we sit beside, people pass. The abnormally warm spring afternoon has drawn them from the warmth of their coats and windbreakers, the first signs of summer fashion sneaking out of people’s dressers. I can feel their eyes on me, no doubt the homeless man that sits before me was the cause of those curious stares. I avoid the looks of my peers, unsure how to explain to them what had brought me to this. Would they understand? Would they even listen? Attention spans are not what they had once been and even the greatest reasoning has to be shared in a hundred and fourty characters or less. The world around us has become a series of tweets, the inevitable result of a society built on the right to information, but lacking the will to earn it.
        “You gonna finish that?” he asks suddenly.
        “What?” I look down to the grilled cheese sandwich I’d ordered, a single bite missing from one of the triangle-cut slabs of bread and cheese. “Oh. No, you go ahead.” I say as I slide the plate towards him. He only nods and pulls it close, as if certain someone was going to try and take it from him. I have no interest in food and perhaps he knew that. My mind drifts as my attention returns to that window. I wince as a breeze flaps the budding maple branches outside, allowing sunlight through their gnarled tangle for a brief second before it’s gone again, blotted out once more.

        I first noticed him on my way to class, the small gravel path that ran behind one of the buildings was dark with the rain that had long overstayed its’ welcome. The fall air was crisp and the rain chilled, forcing me to pull my coat tighter as I made to pass him. He sat on the edge of the path with a small flask laying in the dirt to the left of him. He smelled like he’d been bathing in it’s contents, a ragged grey ski jacket concealed the shape of his body and a thick beard, white with the years, doing much the same to his face. In the shadow of the University building he’d taken refuge behind it was difficult to tell whether he was awake, sleeping or dead. It was only as I passed him, this stranger in the land of Academia, that I realized he was simply staring at his own feet. I did my best to ignore him, my eyes only quickly sliding over the polished black wingtip shoes which had so raptly captured his attention. They seemed out of place on such a disheveled man.
        “Ain’t nothin’ better than a nice pair of shoes.” was all he said to me as I passed
        “No doubt” was all I could say in return, the answer nothing but a polite necessity to cover my escape. It worked. As I left the small path, turning onto the larger walkways that intersected the campus, I looked back and saw him still staring at his shoes. The rain didn’t seem to bother him, though it was quickly cutting through the warmth of my own coat. I thought nothing of it at the time, however, and quickened my pace to ensure I wasn’t late for my class.

        It was several days before I saw him again. He was in the same position he’d been the last time I had seen him, though the rain had become little more than an angry swirl of grey clouds and the distant rumble of thunder. If it weren’t for that, no doubt I’d have had to wonder if any time had passed at all. His grey ski jacket still sat askew on his shoulders, though the zipper had been pulled down to expose a yellowing dress shirt beneath, the white material darkened with sweat, age and god knows what else. He was staring at his shoes again and as I approached him I saw the same flask, now sitting on his right side, uncapped and empty. The narrow pathway between the buildings had become a wind tunnel of sorts, the autumn breeze becoming a strong gust as I passed the man again. Perhaps it was the midterms, the stress of them bearing down on my mind, or perhaps it was the man’s docile helplessness. Whatever it was, as I passed him, I couldn’t help but speak.
        “Nothing beats a nice pair of shoes, eh?” my tone was mocking, unlike my usual attitude towards others and even as the words escaped me I couldn’t help but regret them. For his part, the man either didn’t hear what I’d said, or didn’t care. He simply continued to stare at those dress shoes as my sneakers scuffed through the gravel beneath them. It was only as I reached the end of the pathway that I heard his answer,
        “All the degrees and diplomas in the world can’t even come close, kid.”
        I stopped when I heard that, looking back towards the man. He’d looked away from his shoes and as I stared at him I saw no hint of the liquor from that flask in his eyes. They were sharp, blue and focused on me. Beneath that gaze I couldn’t help but wilt a little before adjusting my bag and turning once more to head for class. I could feel those eyes drilling into my back as I walked and it was only when I turned the corner that I was able to let out the breath that had become thick and sticky in my throat.

        It was that stare which kept me away from that pathway for nearly a week. It took several minutes longer to go around the buildings rather than between them, but perhaps a part of me didn’t want to know what the man had meant, or what he would say were I to run into him again. Eventually I convinced myself this was a ridiculous notion, why should I be afraid of an old homeless drunk? My mind was running away with me as I headed for class again and I couldn’t help but laugh as I found myself turning that familiar corner. The trees were bare now and the gravel was  made colorful with the red, golds and browns of a hundred fallen leaves. It would have been a fine sight if it weren’t for him sitting there. Like a bastion of humanity, in all of its own filthy ignorance, in a sea of nature, he sat on the edge of the path once again. His shoes had been superceded by me though, those blue eyes once more trained on me, as if waiting for me to walk down the path so he could... so he could what? Rob me? Murder me? My mind created a plethora of possible poor endings to me walking down that path, but my feet didn’t listen. As  leaves crunched beneath the soles of my fading red sneakers my eyes were transfixed by his own gaze. As I approached him my stomach clenched, waiting for him to make his move. It never came, only words did.
        “All that education and you still walk down empty pathways, knowing full well you shouldn’t. What did you think I was going to do to you? I saw that hesitation, kid. Am I murderer? A thief? A lunatic? Or am I just a harmless ol’ drunk?” his words were clear, no slurring and no hesitation and as I found myself stopping to listen to them, I couldn’t help but wonder myself what this man was.
        “Excuse me?” my answer was lame, but it was safe. He simply stared at me though as if waiting for a better answer.
        “You got a smoke, kid? I haven’t had one in days.” he finally looked away from me, looking back to his shoes before his rough looking hands began to dig through the pockets of his jacket. “I have a lighter in here somewhere.”
        “Sorry, I don’t smoke.” As I stared at him I felt the urge to leave, to run. My class was starting soon and though it was certainly more important than humoring some hobo, my feet remained rooted on the spot. Perhaps it was some lingering desire to find something funny about this man, his unkempt appearance and repugnant smell leading me to believe that it was only a matter of time before he said something ridiculous. He only rolled his eyes.
        “That’s the problem with you kids, not a shred of life in you. Everything is a matter of being right, being healthier, being smarter, living longer.” those last words spit out with such negativity that it bordered on disdainful disregard to my being right there. “Living without living because someone hasn’t taught you the difference.” he added, a grubby hand running across his nose before he spit into the mesh of gravel and leaves beside him. In the distance the slow drawl of a car’s horn echoed in the small pathway, carried on a cold gust of wind that swirled the leaves amidst my unresponsive legs. It was only when he waved me off with a simple gesture of his hand that I found the strength to keep walking. In the distance the bells of a nearby church began to ring out the hour, my class was starting and as the bells continued to fill the fall air with their brass melody I found myself wondering.

        Winter had closed its claws around the thickly packed campus before I saw him again. He had moved from that small pathway, sitting now at its opening facing the road which ran on the outskirts of the campus. In front of him sat a small tin pot, the handle worn down to the metal support which had once been encased in black plastic. Beside that, a small piece of cardboard lay against it with the simple word “WONDERING” written in large, blocky black marker letters. His grey coat was still as ragged, though it was now layered beneath a yellow rain slicker; perhaps a handout from the local mission. I found myself drawn to him however, my curiosity piqued by his absence and sudden re-appearance. My black hair had grown longer since I’d last seen him, and as I pushed it back to clear my face, tucking what I could behind an ear to keep it from my eyes, I expected him to ask for me change. I was not disappointed.
        “Change?” he asked in a simple tone, his eyes did not lift to meet my own as he asked and I assured myself he wouldn’t remember me. The soft clang of the quarter I dropped in his pot drew a murmured, “Thank you” from him. He said nothing else and eventually I was forced to break the silence.
        “You spelled wandering wrong. It’s an a, not an o.” I finally stated, unable to think of anything more salient to say.
        “Smart kid.” he replied, “I bet you get a lot of A’s in your classes, eh? Places like this seem to enjoy answers to questions nobody asked, about problems that only exist in the minds of the ones asking the questions.” he paused after that, as if expecting me to answer him. I simply stood there though, dumbfounded by such a blatant attack. He let out a soft sigh, “wandering may be spelled with an a, kid. But wondering is spelled with an o, and wondering is the only path to truth we have left. You should try it sometime, you’ll learn more about yourself that way. You’ll never learn about that in there.” gesturing towards the sprawl of buildings that stretched out along the road, each filling with students heading for classes.
        “You’re joking, right?” I finally blurted out, “Anyone can sit around wondering. That’s the easy route, I’d like to see you come up with a theory on the effect of prolonged exposure in the synaptic cleft on Neurotransmitters due to overdoses of GABA reuptake inhibitors.”  I answered. I pulled out the biggest words I could think of off the top of my head, wanting to shame the man into taking back his comments. Science was the only way to understand the behaviours in our own heads, Psychology in particular, my own field of study. He simply laughed.
        “A theory, you say?” he began, another pause following though I was certain he already had an answer for me despite his attempts to mime a man in thought. “I would theorize that if you didn’t feel the need to provide these... what did you call them?”
        “GABA reuptake inhibitors” I answered
        “Right, whatever they are. The  question resolves itself.” he finished. I was shocked at first by the simplicity of his answer, but within that simplicity I saw its flaws. “But what about the good they do? You’d throw that away?”
        “That’s not a question for me, kid. I’m just a hobo. I’ll leave that to you.”
        “But...”
        “You got a smoke, kid?” his tone returning to one of mild disinterest, as though the conversation had not happened. I was flabbergasted, surely this man did not seriously believe that he held the answers that science didn’t! His answer was basic, it didn’t explain anything and it was... it was wrong!
        “I don’t smoke.” I stated bluntly, disbelief hidden behind my words. He reached into his pot and pulled my quarter back out, holding it out to me.
        “Here, kid. You need the change more than I do.”

        “Champagne Supernova!” he exclaims, dragging me from my thoughts.
        “What?” I answer, tearing my gaze away from the window. The busy streets of the campus proper had once more become the diner, the hobo’s food gone and the lineup of students which had crowded the small diner likewise gone. How long have I been sitting here?
        “I said, Champagne Supernova. That’s the name of that song, isn’t it? Good song title, can’t stand the singer though.” is all he says, clearly expecting me to understand what he was talking about.
        “It’s not bad.” I answer, not wanting to get into a conversation about a song I haven’t thought about for nearly a decade. I’ve brought him here for a reason though and before he has a chance to press me on the matter of music, I force the issue. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what you said before about science. I don’t understand how you can say those things and mean it. Through science we’ve learned so much. It allows for the understanding and explanation of things that had once been considered to be magic. Peer reviewing, the scientific process, the control of variables and confounds... are you saying sitting on the sidewalk pretending your thoughts are deep and meaningful is better than that?” I realize as I speak that my words are speeding up, my tone darkening. The frustration I’ve felt since I met this man comes spilling out. He doesn’t react at first, the goofy smile on his face melting away until only that beard remains, no sign of emotion on his face.
        “You ever hear about Plato? Smart guy, poor as dirt and not a lot of people really liked him but he had some important things to say.” he answers at last.
        “What does that have to do with---” I begin to answer but he cuts me off.
        “Let me finish, kid. The Allegory of the Cave is probably one of his greatest works so sit still and have some respect!” his voice grows commanding as he speaks, and as he commands, I find myself obeying. He sits quietly for a moment as if to make sure I don’t have anything else to say before he continues. “There are men chained up in a cave, facing a wall. They’ve lived in that cave their whole life and  not one of them have ever seen the entrance to the world outside. Their existence consists of that cave wall, a fire behind them and the shadows displayed on the wall by things moving between them and that fire. Those shadows begin to become objects, concepts created in the minds of the prisoners to account for their reality. They see these things and say, ‘That is a rabbit’, unaware that all they see is a shadow; a trick caused by the fire they can’t see, and a reflection of sorts of the object casting that shadow. Though they call it a rabbit, it is not a rabbit.”
        “But--” I attempt to cut in but he simply continues
        “Plato said a philosopher is born when one casts off their chains and look away from that wall, knowing that the reality it shows are only shadows. The philosopher leaves the cave, looking for the object that had cast the shadow. Scientists, if you ask me, are those who cast off their chains and destroy that entrance, ensuring no-one explores on their own. They tell us what to believe, how the world works, what is possible and impossible, all while dismissing those who still find their way out of that cave despite the best efforts of their godly science. Science, true science, can never be correct; it should only be wrong. In its errors science grows and through refutations it learns from its own mistake, like a child sticking their hand on a stove burner. They study those shadows, ignoring the objects which had cast them and with them create their truths about the universe around them.”
        I sat there quietly as he spoke, incredulous in my thoughts but eager in appearance. Whether he believed it or not, he continued.
        “Science is the business of creating truth, and finding arguments and evidence to convince others that it’s true. There’s little to no interest in whether that truth is real or not, but only if it’s plausible. You seem like a smart kid, I bet you’re full of thoughts, right?” he continues, pausing only long enough for me to nod. “So what is a thought?”
        I pause for a moment before I answer, “It’s a collection of electrical impulses which come together to illicit a physiological response in the body, leading to either an emotional or physical response from an individual.” I speak confidently, remembering this from one of my textbooks. I dumb it down a bit for him, but the point is the same; a thought was simply a mechanical function of the brain. He only smiles though.
        “Good answer, kid. Just what I was hoping you’d say.” he sits up straighter before continuing, taking on the air of one of my professors despite that soup stained beard and gin-soaked jacket. “When we see something, what is that we see if not shadows? Light enters our eye, where it’s broken down by the visual system into a complex system of electrical impulses transmitted by our photo receptors. They then travel to the---” he begins, but I cut him off.
        “I know this already. Then it goes to the visual cortex by either the ventral or dorsal visual pathway where it’s processed.” I finish for him despite the growing look of disappointment on his face. My Neurobiology class had covered this in some detail.
        “So you haven’t questioned what degree of information loss there is through this process? Light reflects off of an object, our eyes transform this light into electrical information, that electrical information is then split and transmitted to the visual cortex which reconstructs that electrical data into something we’d recognize, then sends that to our forebrain where we interpret it? Kid, you’re smarter than that. Translate The Iliad into Japanese, then Spanish, then back into English and try to read it. You won’t have the same thing you started with.” his voice has become forceful by now, as if trying to jam this point home before I could outright dismiss it. It works to some degree and as I sit back in my chair I stare at him. It was a silly concept, but I couldn’t ignore a voice in the back of my head that demanded I admit he had a point.
        “But what does that have to do with science?” I ask bluntly, my patience growing thin as I find myself wanting to agree with some of his, admittedly, absurd points. Surely the world wasn’t simply a vague imagining of what was really there. He relaxes, mirroring me in a way as he sits back, a waft of stale stink washing over the booth as the red rubberized seating squeaks beneath his weight.
        “Science seeks truth in the world, but ignores the untruths the world we see is built on.” he states simply. “Even the strongest skyscraper is made flimsy by a poor foundation.”. I’m given no time to answer as he gets to his feet, “I need to piss like a racehorse, kid. Hold on.” I simply nod once more. My lips are pursed with the inanity of the thoughts that had flooded my mind, the desire to simply leave before I found myself buying into a madman’s ravings growing stronger with each passing moment. Nearly ten minutes pass like this before I notice the time, a glance towards the washrooms showing no sign of the hobo’s return. Another five minutes pass before I finally get up and head to the washroom myself, the diner nearly empty now. The washroom is empty, a bare fluorescent bulb humming over a small mirror facing the door; the strong smell of bleach and air freshener was overwhelming. In the air drifted the barest hint of gin, but there was no sign of the hobo.

        I had a study group that afternoon and as I listened to my classmates discuss the material, I couldn’t help but think of the hobo. What he had said had fastened onto my thoughts like a parasite draining the blood of its host, living off of it but killing it at the same time. We had an upcoming test on signs and symptoms of various mental diseases, but as my classmates spoke of hormones, neuronal degradation and neural plasticity I found myself losing interest. The dimly lit cafe that we often frequented to prepare for tests was, as usual, empty. The soft sounds of some folk singer was barely audible over the speaker system, even in the silence that enveloped the room.
        “All mental illness originates and ends in the brain, so really the best way to look for it is to observe the brain directly. Illness flows in the form of mis-communications between hormones and neurotransmitters, which inevitably ends up in the forebrain where it leads to improper assessments of stimuli in the environment.” one of my classmates stated, trying her best to sound as though she had a proper grasp of what she was saying. Was it even correct? I wasn’t sure, though it sounded like it had come from a textbook so no doubt it must have had some truth to it. The others agree, nodding as though they were discussing something of great importance. Perhaps it was the hobo, perhaps I was taking him too seriously, but as I watched them I couldn’t help but feel the beginnings of disgust rise in my throat.
        “The question” she continued, that pretty blonde with her green eyes and tight smile, “isn’t about their symptoms, but more about these mis-communications. If we can solve those, the symptoms are a moot point.”
        “History is full of questions, how to solve mis-communications a popular one, but hardly THE question.” I answer, breaking my silence as the words slip out without my permission. My classmates' eyes turn towards me as I speak and despite the surprise in those eyes, I continue. “The question of illness cannot only be looked at in terms of a definite answer, in fact, I don’t think we’ve even found the right question. We look at people and tell ourselves, they’re sick, they’re broken, but we can fix them. We develop medicines and sciences to diagnose and treat conditions that we only kind of understand. We give these diseases names so we can pretend we have some grasp on them, some understanding of what they are. Despite this, we can only, at best, reduce the harm they cause. Why? Because we look at the question in terms of chemicals in the brain, we look for tumors, or lesions  and if neither are present we simply prescribe drugs for no reason other than to hope they’ll do something.” They stare at me as I finish, perhaps what I’d said sounded stupid, but I’d said it because I had to.
        “So we shouldn’t even bother try?” asks the blonde, incredulous and smug. I don’t miss the implication of what she’s asking me. I had asked the hobo the same question some weeks earlier and I knew how she felt, I’d felt the same.
        “Of course we should try. But to simply try isn’t the point, the point is to understand. There’s more to the brain than chemicals and electrical currents. Perhaps not a soul, but some variation between us. These books, they never talk about that though, they treat the brain as though each of ours were a perfect replica of each other, acting in exactly the same way to produce exactly the same results. Descartes told himself he thought therefore he was, and while the question  ‘Am I? is an important one, I think we need a new question. We need this question to answer if we want to look at Psychology as anything but an attempt to legitimize a branch of biology as its own science. It has nothing to do with chemical reactions in the brain and everything to do with the symptoms you’ve dismissed as a moot point. Right now we’re just answering questions better suited to other branches of science, parasites on the body of higher learning.” I know I’m rambling, but I can’t help myself, the thoughts pour from my mouth as though they had been put there by some saboteur intent on making me look like a fool.
        “And what then, Mr. know it all, is the question?” she asks, I can see it in her eyes; she’s mad that I’ve challenged her.
        “The question?” I begin. I pause; what was the question? It comes to me then and as I look at her I find it hiding on the tip of my tongue. “Am I OK?”

         “Am I OK? Did I seriously say that was the paramount question of psychology?” I ask. The hobo sits across from me once again but he has changed. His beard has been trimmed back and he no longer stinks of gin. His jacket has been patched and though his blue eyes are still piercing, they hold a certain understanding that had been missing the last time I’d spoken to him.  I’d found him down the street from the University dorm I’ve lived in for the last two years. Its been a week since the study group and the test it had been intended to prepare me for had come and gone. The thoughts remained though, stronger and more refined perhaps than they had been when I had first admitted to them.
         “Don’t know, wasn’t there,” is the blunt response I get back from him. He seems amused though. “If it was though, I think there’s some hope for you yet. I bet she didn’t have an answer for you.”
         “Oh, she did; but it wasn’t exactly on topic, or very polite” I answer. The hint of a grin tries to escape the dour expression that has been plastered to my face for the better part of the afternoon. “I’ve thought about it though and I’m not sure I really understand what my point was. It’s no wonder she didn’t know how to answer, even I don’t know how to answer and I’m the one that asked.”
         “And that is exactly why it’s a damn good question, kid. If we knew the answer to it, we wouldn’t have to ask it. Try expanding on it, think about it some more. You aren’t going to find an answer in any textbook, and nobody else can give it to you.” he explains. I can hear the encouragement in his tone.
         “Well, if our brains... or minds if you will, are products of variation; how can we know whether we’re normal? Normality is a creation of society so that it can perceive threats to itself. We see a man raving on a street corner and we tell ourselves that he isn’t normal, he’s strange, insane even. What about the man sitting beside you on the bus ? He may not be raving, but does that make him normal? In fact, just because I’m not raving, does that make me normal too?” I begin. My words come slowly, betraying my own uncertainty on the topic. Thankfully, the hobo interjects and saves me from my own perceived inanity.
         “That’s a good start. Don’t forget that abnormal individuals are, by virture of their abnormalities, unaware that they aren’t normal. They hear voices in their head and assume that it’s not that the voices aren’t real, but that other people simply can’t hear them. They may view the world around them as the problem and never once understand that it’s their own perceptions that are flawed.” he explains, I nod.
         “We could be completely insane and never know it. We’d never know anything was wrong because we wouldn’t know that we weren’t right,” I conclude.
         The hobo nods and I can’t help but smile as I begin to understand what he had meant when we’d first met. To sit and think on a problem, rather than sit in a classroom and expect the answer to be given to us in the form of a textbook, or powerpoint presentation, was the path to true understanding.
         “In that paradox lies the weakness of Psychology as a science. It seeks to spread truth, but it doesn’t know the scope of the question. It can tell you what chemicals are related to what emotions, or what areas of the brain control which functions. It can tell you all about the mechanical processes of the brain, but it doesn’t have the first clue about how the brain works. It can’t tell us who we are, or whether we’re normal; it can’t even tell us what it wants us to believe it to be. What kind of truth is that?” the hobo says. I simply stare at him and perhaps the last shred of my empirical nature demands I acknowledge it.
         “But this self-created truth, the thoughts we create on our own. They’re no less untruthful, built on interpretation and personal experience. They ignore the problem of variation and individuality as much as the generalizations made by Psychologists. While I can ask myself if I’m OK, and perhaps even reach a satisfactory answer, it doesn’t get me any closer to understanding the world.” I give these thoughts voice, and even as I speak them, I believe them. I feel like I’ve missed the point of the hobo’s attempts at education. Perhaps I’ve overthought it, or maybe I had been right in the first place and the man sitting across from me was a lunatic.
         “Good point.” he says. The hobo stands and looks around the small room before he frowns. “Where’s your pisser, kid? I gotta take one.” I point down towards the hallway, we didn’t get our own washrooms here but at least the school kept them clean. He nods and heads out and as he passes me I catch the soft scent of cologne wafting from him. I’m no idiot, I remember the diner.
         “Hey, what’s your name, anyway? I don’t think you ever gave it to me.” I say as he moves to leave. He stops, pulling a cigarette from the breast pocket of that patched jacket, ignoring the no smoking sign that hung in the hallway behind him.
         “Frank,” all he says.
         “Phil,” I reply.
         “Good luck, Phil” he answers, turning to leave as he pulls a lighter from another pocket and vanishes from my doorway. He looks like a new man, standing tall and confident despite his patched clothing and greasy hair. I remain in my sparsely decorated student room for only another moment before I move to follow him. He’s gone from the hallway but I can hear the clatter of the washroom door coming to rest in its frame once more and I hurry my pace. When I open the door though, he’s gone again. The stalls of the washroom are open, but empty and the row of mirrors that hung beneath a bar of fluorescent lights reflect nothing but the white light and green tiling of the washroom walls. An open window gives the only natural light, the chirping of birds in a large oak outside reflecting off the shining tiles and making the emptiness of that room all the more pronounced. Sitting on the rim of one of the sinks are Frank’s shoes, polished and freshly cleaned. When I pick them up a small note falls out.

         “Remember, Phil. Nothing beats a good pair of shoes”
                                                           -Frank

         I’m not sure I understand. Perhaps I will in time. As I hold the shoes I see movement in the mirror, the door of the washroom swings shut and I see a hint of a grey jacket just before the door closes. There is no sound and when I turn towards the door itself there is no sign of its movement. I hurry towards it and when I look out into the hall, there is no-one there.

         Its been a month since I last saw the hobo and part of me knows I will not see him again. If I did, what would I say to him? I wear his shoes somedays and those are the days I hope I see him. An author by the name of Philip K. Dick once said “I'm a sick man. And the more I see, the sicker I get. I'm so sick I think everybody else is sick and I'm the only healthy person.” and perhaps he was sick. Perhaps I’m sick. Perhaps the hobo was nothing more than a figment of my imagination and by interacting with him I was as insane as the belief that truth is anything more than a buzzword. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll wake up and find that this world was only a dream, and the real world is something far more troubling; perhaps not. I’m still not sure which possibility is scarier, and as I look down at the shoes, which I keep nicely polished, I begin to understand.