There is an old man who lives in my neighborhood. He lives in the apartment just across the back alley. When I first moved here he creeped me out. I saw him walking with a severe limp (and when I say severe I mean severe) in the dark. His eyes looked a bit wild. He was picking up garbage. Sometimes I saw him sweeping dirt. One of the first times I saw him, before I knew we were neighbors, I almost gave him the remains of my burger.

I see him walking down the street all the time. Middle of winter, with a faded jacket, open, no gloves, no touque, just a limp. Walking down the middle of the road. Picking up garbage. Picking up garbage in the middle of a busy intersection, cars braking, drivers putting up their hands, wondering who let this guy out. I see him in Shoppers, where I've had a better look at those light blue crazies staring back out into the world. Where did he get that limp? War vet? Hit by a car? Daniel heard from someone that he had been hit by cars several times and had made it all the way to downtown. Does he make it back? Does he sometimes sleep on a bench? Did his family desert him? Did he ever marry?

He has a head full of really white hair, is clean shaven (or maybe just slight stubble), and his pants look like suit pants, usually tan. His jacket looks too old, too thin. His leg bends the wrong way when he walks. His shoes are black and look like thick business shoes from the old-man isle. He always looks the same.

I talked to him once. Or he talked to me. It was this early winter, October or November, too cold to be wearing my high-wasted black pencil skirt with bare legs. I was on my way to work, in a hurry. I felt silly when he looked at me, though he wasn't dressed any more appropriately. He was picking up garbage near my car. Not my garbage, but he might have thought it was mine. He stopped what he was doing, looked at my legs, and then looked right into my eyes and kept looking. I felt uncomfortable.

"You can't be nineteen." He said. I wondered if he wanted me to buy him some alcohol, or maybe he was a pimp - but I don't think pimps care about age. It sounded like he was going to ask me to do something for him, maybe with the help of my legs.

"I'm twenty-two, actually." I said. We paused, awkwardly, standing in the 'I'm talking to you' position, with both of our faces turned away. He took a step, so did I. I got in my car and went to work. And that was it.

I saw him today again. I see him at least three times a week, I'd say. Sometimes at night, sometimes day. Step LIMP step LIMP with no touque or mitts. What is he doing with no touque or mitts on? I feel sorry for him. Annoyed at his family. Myself. I want to pull over and zip up his jacket for him, give him some French fries, a touque and mitts, tell him to wear these, and ask him his life story.

But, I probably won't.