This biker called me by a name I haven’t heard since I lost everything forty years ago. I was standing in the rain outside a fast food restaurant, digging through the trash for something to eat, when this massive man in a leather vest grabbed my shoulder and whispered, “Mr. Harrison? Is that you?”
Nobody has called me Mr. Harrison in four decades. Not since I was a high school teacher. Not since I had a house and a wife and a purpose. Not since the world decided I wasn’t worth remembering.I’m seventy-three years old. I’ve been homeless for eleven years. I own a rusted bicycle, a torn jacket, and a sleeping bag I found behind a church. That’s everything. That’s my whole life now.
