There's a homeless man who sits on the corner of 65 and Broadway with his pitbull-terrier mix. He is young with a hippy look about him and a book in hand. Sometimes Tolstoy, sometimes Virgil. Come to think of it, wouldn't Tolstoy be considered a hipster of his time. Rich man rejecting his inherited and earned wealth and growing a beard so fabulously out of sync with his drab dull garb that it would've rivaled Gandalf's. Gandalf the grey that is. Not the white one whose clothes seemed to radiate light like a humanoid tube light. Nothing remotely dull about him both figuratively and literally.

Anyway back to the destitute after that detour. I am a curious soul by nature. I look at someone and instantly conjure up stories in my head about them. Every little detail interests me for therein lies the beauty. I pass by this man-of-my-attention every day on my way to gym and my mind starts publishing a back story. How did this person came to be where he is. He is able-bodied and mind is sharp enough to breeze through Shakespearean drudgery. Could he have been a thespian fallen on hard times, or a philosopher who was born an eon too late. In Plato's time he would've been revered for his knowledge but today the only knowledge worth having is one that pays the bills. It's no longer desirable to let the mind wander over all things but to study a particular coterie of subject enough to be masterful at it. Reminds me of time in college when art historians would convene under a tree outside for class while the engineers looked out the windows forlornly. Our professor, to lift up the spirits, jovially quipped that ten years down the line the same historians would still be sitting under the tree watching birds from below, while the engineers sat in shiny offices watching the same bird from above.

I am still not sure who gets the better view or comes out on top in this arrangement. The free soul or the automated soldier. I have tried to imbibe a little bit of both. And failed to master either.

Anyway back again to the impecunious after that diversion. Or rather the poor man's dog who seems to have taken after its owner in demeanor. Always tranquil and beseeching every passerby with those round soulful eyes. If eyes could talk, this dog would be on the radio while entire nations switched to the same frequency.

After one particularly tiring gym session, I bought some empanadas from the food truck and happened to pass by those eyes. The dog's eyes kept following me while its owner's stayed glued to the book held perpendicular to the ground. I found that an incredibly uncomfortable way to read. He also had a large placard out front, 'the dog always comes first'. Why, if I have the temerity to ask. Did he do so out of pure compassion or to cater to the emotion of the public. At no point did either sets of eyes go to the deliciousness in my hand and yet I was left plenty self-conscious. So much so that I turned on a six-pence, retraced my route and deposited my meal at the foot my silent acquaintance.

In that moment, I realized how cold it was, how hungry I was, how I was going to go back and eat a full meal, how I was going to sleep under a warm down comforter on a plush bed, how all my little inadequacies fall by the wayside when compared to situations such as these. But to my surprise, I also felt a twinge of jealousy for the bond between the dog and its owner. I did not matter why the owner put the placard. The fact that it was there for all the world to see made the bonhomie free of all societal vagaries. A bond so bright that none of mine except familial can hold a candle to it. A bond so strong that neither cold, nor penury can rupture it. A bond that seems so arduous yet effortless in its making that I have yet to create its likeness with someone in this city.