The wind had picked up; it was supposed to be a breezy night. I rolled down my car windows and ordered my Route 44 Coke Zero to take a breather. I heard him first, speaking loudly to no one, as he came around my car toward the bench in the grassy area in front of angle cars in the drive-in parking.

He was hunched over, shirtless, carrying a brown paper bag from the drive-in. His movements were erratic. His arms were undulating as if something under his skin couldn't let him sit still. Of course, my first thought was not unique: he was probably on "something."

I thought back to the lady I had encountered a few weeks ago knocking on doors while campaigning. She leaned toward me, still behind locked gate surrounding her porch, and told me that "they" were paying people $500 to get shipped to our city.

"We should get that under control," she told me.

Even some of my friends have debated their stances on the homeless due to their own experiences. They tell about being harassed on their walks or how living close to encampments had made them wonder how to protect themselves better and what it says about our society at large.

But I wonder more if it doesn't say more about each of us individually, especially those of us who feel like we've done everything the "right way" — and that those of us who did should have a say over those who didn't. We like to think that we are advanced beyond our tribal times, but maybe we still worry innately about being kicked out of the tribe because we know that our society is more likely to punish us for not "doing it right" instead of making sure we don't fall through the cracks.

Back at the drive-in, I wrestled with myself whether I should close the windows. I wondered whether he was a threat. I tried not to stare, even as he started into a rendition of K-Ci & JoJo's hit, "All My Life." Through quick peeks, seeing the underwear above the sagging pants, I couldn't help but think, "This is someone's son."

I wanted to lean out and ask him about his mother.

But I am not prepared or trained to engage with anyone who might have a mental illness or be under the influence of drugs. And still, I kept thinking. Did his mother did she know where he was? Did she know he was safe, if not well? Or had they not talked in years? Was she dead?

"All my life, I prayed for someone like you," he sang, this one line over and over as he grabbed his brown bag and headed toward the intersection. He didn't hit the pedestrian button; he just sauntered into the street, swinging his tattooed arms toward the cars. Then came two thoughts at once: he must have been still at one point to sit for those tattoos, and am I going to watch him die because someone is not paying attention to the man who's dancing across the intersection?

Drivers honked, and there was a close call from a fast car. By the time I left, he had made it to the other side, still swaying to the music only he could hear.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at [email protected]. To find out more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Ev at Unsplash