If this were a true story, it should have a beginning, middle, and ending.
Instead its more like an idea or a description.
Under the highway overpass there lives a weatherworn man.
In a sense he might be called homeless, but this is home to him.
Its also where he works.
He repairs bicycles. Any kind, any make, it doesn't matter to him.
He takes whatever payment people will give him, a can of soda, a sandwich, a couple of dollars, a thank you, a few kind words, whatever anyone can spare.
He scours the city for parts for his repairs. He fashions whatever he can find into what he needs.
I don't know how he lives with the summer heat, the noise, the exhaust fumes, the punishing pavement, or the winter cold.
He sleeps in a small tent behind his wall of stuff. Discarded and broken material dreams that he builds into new stuff or keeps simply because he feels they must be kept.
How long will the city let him remain there?
Will he stay there until he chooses to close his repair shop or will some bureaucratic red tape wind its way around his unshaved neck?
Update, as expected, he was forced out. His stuff is all gone.
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