October 3rd, I had a wonderful exploration around Tacoma. After looking at the art museums, I went and ordered some coffee from the Anthem Cafe. I came out with tiny cup in hand and then saw a homeless man pushing a cart on the same sidewalk as me. I had seen this man just an hour earlier. He was seated with a friend outside the Art museum where the school bus had let me and the class out. I looked at this man now and I wondered if he really was dangerous. He struck up the conversation first.

“This is wonderful! I get to chat with someone while I walk today.”

“How are you today?”

He explained to me how he was an ex-cop who became an alcoholic. He pulled out a can of beer from his jacket pocket. He shook my hand and introduced himself as George. George had a scarred hand due to someone trying to kill him by fire. I shook my head, and let him talk more. I sipped the coffee silently. We stopped walking and his voice cracked slightly.

“Why am I out here doing this? I’m f***ing 57 years old. I shouldn’t be out here.” George looked back at me and then told me he was actually 757 years old. His logic was that for each time he was in a coma, he added 100 years onto his age. I nodded. He mentioned how he hadn’t eaten in a while, and showed me his sign. I didn’t have much on me, but I gave him the unopened applesauce that was supposed to be with my lunch. George let me photograph him for this blog. I wish I could have given him more.