When summer sinks into cool fall and the trees shed their coats, he emerges. Walking, resting and living, restless but content, an actor for all but accommodating to none.

They call him “Vet”. None of the fascinated public knows anything about his past, or current life, beyond what they see for a few short days. Certainty exists only in the pattern and predictability of his actions. It’s true that he can be seen anywhere, downtown or up, but he can only be seen doing one thing: “Getting by”.

Neighbors, already having exhausted the typical yet traditional topics of sports and weather can be heard whispering his name, talking about the most recent sighting, before, with a nervous glance over the shoulder, returning to the newest fashion or a shocking news report.

“Hey, have you seen Vet recently? He seems to be getting by okay.” Or, “I saw him last Saturday a few blocks from here; He’s getting by better than before.”

Getting by. For the Vet, getting by consists of fumbling for crumpled, spent cigarettes. Getting by means choosing the right cardboard to sleep on, the one with the most colors being preferable. Getting by isn’t the cycle of a nine to five job, of cubicle cardboard and tight ties, or of endless discontent and renewed hope. Instead, it’s a linear process of replacing wet cardboard, walking as far as desired, integrating, alcohol filled nights and hazy, slow-start mornings.

I guess you could say he’s homeless, but it’s not really true. He’s forever at home, among steel grates and cracked concrete. No he certainly isn’t homeless, but more accurately a nomad. Forever discontent with his current status, accepting a burning desire to move, hopelessly nonplussed by his present surroundings.

I got to meet him once. Well a meeting isn’t really the correct word, but I was acknowledged once. I was on my way back home, when I saw him sorting his clothes for the coming night. Every time I’d seen him before this, he seemed to be randomly fumbling, constantly looking for something or incessantly restless. But, when I saw him this time, it became clear that his supposed twitch was in reality, a methodical, well-honed process. It seemed that no matter where the other was, one hand was always to his lips, teeth nibbling, gnawing, mouth drawing around the paper wrapped tobacco. The other hand flew around him, touching, recording his surroundings, ready for the inevitable change that might come the next day or in a week.

His clothes were torn, yet not in a way that represented filth or untidiness. I couldn’t help but notice that the ripped pocket of his ratty flannel shirt, tattered pants and hole-ridden jacket boasted pure unadulterated confidence.

As I got near, I straightened up a little, walking with an official gate, as if to brag. “Look, I’m a valuable part of everything you aren’t.” When I passed, I tipped my hat and with a grin said “hi”. Even though I tried to keep my momentum, I couldn’t help but notice the silence that met me. I turned to look at him, only to find him ignoring my pride. At that moment, all my cockiness crumbled, and it was obvious that I was the inferior passerby. I walked away without flinching, but my security had become insecure, and I became enamored with that brief interaction, replaying and reliving it dozens of times in the days to come. Now it’s winter, and while the colorful, matted cardboard and the spent cigarette butts still lay on the sidewalks and street corners, he’s gone on to better thing, forever absorbed with a content restlessness, eternally, “getting by”.