At the Exit

For the past few months, I've seen the guy at my exit every time I come home from the clubs.  He sits just barely under the street lamp, his legs huddled into himself.  He seems to be half asleep, but still holds his change cup out in case someone has a few quarters or maybe a dollar bill.

Seeing homeless people on the freeway offramps in the Valley is commonplace and has been since I was a child.  They seem to hit the freeway in shifts and, if you're a local, you will know exactly who you will see at each exit at a specific time.  When the day comes that you don't see your guy or girl, you start to wonder what happened.  Soon enough, though, someone else will take over the spot.

The New Guy at my exit in the middle of the night is different, though.  Where the others are frail from years, maybe even decades, of hunger, he still has healthy build.  His clothing, a button down shirt and air of shorts, look as though they were once nice.  And then there is his face, marked with dirt, but still free from creases and a permanent sunburn.  He looks to be in his early 20s.  If he were any older, the streets would have aged at least ten years.  

He has to be new to the streets.  He seems to shy to have been here for more than a few months.  

I imagine that he's a local.  If he were a transplant, he probably would have gone to Hollywood or maybe Downtown or Santa Monica.  I think about how his friends must all be in college now, or starting their first jobs, or doing other things that people do when they are finally on their own.  He is clearly on his own, but it's not the stuff of teenage dreams.