'Taken' is the film we finish watching in the big city movie theatre. After the film, we eat as much of the large pizza and buffalo chicken wings as we can. Failing to finish, I end up with a few wings and pepperoni slices in one of those white to-go boxes.

Walking is such a burden with a full stomach, almost like being off-balance, leaning to the left.

Nights on the city streets look like nothing else, except for a weekend night on the city streets. Mostly locals, mostly young, always wealthy, never satisfied with one bar per night, people roam from one place to another smelling poorly and acting someone else’s age. The same is true this night.

I see an unusual man under the glow of flashing neon beer signs. He wants money—it appears he needs a haircut, a shave, and new clothes—and for money he is asking everyone in sight, apparently desperate enough to brave the strong smell of hairspray and hard liquor.

The way he moves from person to person reminds me of the way a senior in college moves when bouncing from booth to booth at a career fair. Then I remember one college class in particular.

The economics class, which had the highest concentration of Libertarians west of Stockholm, reported that fifty percent of the homeless have drug or alcohol problems, mental illness, or criminal records. I was about to ask the professor if he knew who made up the other fifty percent, because I assumed that it must be people who don’t have drug problems, have no criminal records, and quite possibly are children and families, but the class moved to the next subject so quickly, never to return, as if the problem were solved, being attributed to poor choices.

I thought 'Libertarian' would be a good name for hand soap. At the same time, I made a mental note that there were impoverishing consequences for choosing to be mentally ill.

My leftover food in a white box—which keeps changing colors under the neon Bud sign—is all I have, and I am confident this college-fair-impersonator isn't interested in food. No, I'd been warned, he wants money for alcohol and drugs.

Still, he keeps his eyes on the white box.

'I don’t have cash. Pizza?' I ask.

He takes it. His brief but sincere expression of gratitude is cut short while he rushes to a safe enclave to eat. He opens that to-go box in the same way I opened that white envelope containing my first job offer—ferociously.