Shaved head, shirtless with blue ink and prison pecs, cross-legged without sign, eyes closed, nodding to himself.

Give him a dollar, he rises halfway, saying, "Thank you bra," gravel voice, scratchy. "That's all I need."

But his tone becomes agitated. "I just need to fix a flat," pointing to the bike nearby, prone on sidewalk. "Those idiots..." pointing toward what you presume to be a bike repair shop.

But that's your cue for exit. "Good luck," you say sincerely, moving into the crowd. His voice continues to rise as you turn the corner.