I walk up to the ATM and try to ignore the man babbling about lines. The first time I’d come here I thought he must be talking about drugs—coke, Adderall—perhaps he was some fearless supplicant, hoarding grimy papers in his sleeves and bartering with other local bums for a hit of reefer. But the second time I’d come he’d moved on to what sounded like polygons, the unit circle of all things, telling me that sine and cosine made one. I’d made the mistake of giving him some leftover Chinese food the first time I saw him, not realizing that my bank’s only ATM for ten miles was his haunt quotodien. When I didn’t give him anything the second time he spat at me but for some reason I can’t explain I almost felt as if I deserved it. So now on these weekly jaunts I always make sure to tuck a piece of fruit or a bag of chips into my backpack. Maybe one day he’ll stop showing up, but since my work refused to set up direct deposit our weekly encounters are in his hands, or rather his rump, planted on his grimy cushion beneath his comically poised grin and watery eyes, looking for all the world like some fallen Irving Penn model.

Today I brought him leftovers, fried tofu, because I’ve always wondered if any homeless people used to be vegetarian before they became homeless. I compromise with excessive amounts of pepper and slight overcooking, which gives it a vaguely meat-like texture and flavor. I stick my check into the machine and try to avoid thinking about how long the pieces of food in his beard have been there, cooking in the summer heat.

I turn away from the ATM and raise my hand to wave good-bye but the bum opens his mouth and says, Hey.

I echo him.