I finally gave up trying to find street parking and settled for a space on the top of the new four-story municipal parking garage. The air was pungent with the smell of coffee and cinnamon and car exhaust. Gangs of students bunched in front of every open coffeehouse and cafe. School had only been in session for about a month, and everyone was still in an insouciant summer mood. The frantic days of finals and term papers were a distant, unreal worry.In front of Blind Harry’s, San Celina’s most infamous homeless person, the Datebook Bum, sat on the curb next to his huge canvas bag of junk. His tangled gray head was bent over a maroon leather business diary as he furiously wrote mysterious messages to himself. He was a lovable if sometimes cranky man who, like many longtime homeless, appeared ageless. His dirt-encrusted face and clothing-layered body could be anywhere from thirty to seventy. He’d stubbornly refused any help—only staying in the local homeless shelter when the weather was particularly harsh.
