He used to come into the grocery
store I worked at. He'd ride up
on his bike overburden
ed with his only belongings stored in two barrels
strapped precariously to the back of the bike frame. His hair was long,
messy, and bleached from the sun. The mass of hair on his
chin hung well past his chest. He wore nothing but flip-flops
decaying shorts and many strings of beads and shells around his neck.
His skin was blackened from the sun. Sometimes he'd wear a hat made
He only bought beer
. The cheapest he could find.
Eight years later, I still see him at the beach. He's still got a bike
loaded with his life.
To most, he's just another beach bum
. But the locals have nickname
d him Jesus.