Night was falling fast on the expanses of Houston's sky line. Street lights gleamed on the dark pavement creating mysterious shadows that danced in the wind. The air was palpable, almost as if you could grasp the mist rushing past your face. The sky, hazed by a layer of fog made the city lights, from a distance, seem as if they were a constellation of stars. It appeared to be like any normal night in Houston.
From my position, it is difficult to say that any Houston night is common. Moving from an extremely sheltered area, The Woodlands, I perceived Houston as the majority of people would not. For almost eighteen years of my life, I thought that everyone in the world owned luxury cars and lived in beautiful houses located in peaceful neighborhoods. I was never exposed to criminals or different races. I never knew what poverty was and the conditions that these people were under. All of my life it has seemed as if I have been living a dream, receiving any thing I would ever desire; having my own car and town house. But this contorted view would be changed forever on that hazy Houston night.
Previously that day, Stephanie, my best friend and I were, as usual, driving home to Houston, where I own a town house, after spending the weekend in The Woodlands with our families. It was not out of the ordinary to spot homeless men holding signs that begged for money on these trips. For the most part, cars passing by tend to disregard these pleads for help, and I must admit I frequently do to. But for some reason one homeless man constantly caught my eye. I saw him nearly every day for a month straight, and each day he wore the same shabby garments. His appearance was anything but clean. He appeared to be a middle aged black man whose hair and face were shaggy and saturated with sweat droplets. An old sweat and filth stained t-shirt hung floppily off his skeleton like structure. His jeans, torn and frayed, appeared to be almost four sizes to big.
