Eyes stare at the squares that make up the sidewalk. Stubborn hands grip the supermarket cart carrying all his things: a poncho, a plate and a pewter spoon, two shabby blankets, a plastic cup, a sun-bleached photo of a woman and a boy, a sweater, a paper bag filled with butts and three cigarettes, barely worn sneakers, a bottle with traces of liquor, several pieces of cardboard, and two empty boxes. His life: what remains of it. He pushes. He moves forward, barely registering the faces passing in the opposite direction. I don’t look. I never pay attention. I haven’t seen a thing, chief, I swear. Around here, I don’t even look at the houses or buildings, just the street signs to know where I’m going. He walks on, not listening to the roar of the engines, or the screams of the horns around the public square, or the voices, or the screeching of tires. I’m nobody. No. I didn’t hear anything. I never hear anything. He was a skinny thing, you know. He doesn’t notice the food vendors, even though they arouse something in him, at the bottom of his belly.
