There he stood, talking to no one in particular. A disheveled looking man in a too large blue shirt with unknown stains upon it and jeans that if takenoff, could easily continue to stand on their own. Oddly though, his brightly colored sneakers were exceptionally well kept. He stood on the corner, continuouslytalking, never waiting for a reply. His eyes grew wide as he held out his handson either side of his face, almost as if he were framing what he was about to say. “And that’s why I never wash my jeans!”To this some people would reply, “Not even if you spill salsa or some barbecue sauce on them? Not even then?”But no one cared enough to ask the man his opinion. People walked by, looking around at each other as if to say, “Who is he talking to? Not me is it?” A fewindividuals waited for the bus, looking at the man, then down the street, willing the bus to get there quicker, or wishing they could somehow move the stop tothe next corner to avoid the buried guilt of ignoring a fellow human being.The man patted his pockets and looked around. “Who has my pen? It was blue. A blue ballpoint pen. The only one I’ll write with. I need to make a shopping list. There’s a new recipe I want to try out. It’s a delicious pot pie.”No one really believed this man knew how to cook, much less owned an oven capable of creating such a lovely meal. The man was growing desperate. The more he talked the less they listened. The less they listened the angrier he became. Finally, seemingly reaching his capacity for being ignored, he took a deep breath and stepped directly into the path of a cyclist riding down the street. “HEY!Hey you! Gimme my pen!”Tires screeched as the cyclist gripped the brakes tightly, stopping justshort of hitting the man. The man stood there,4 unfazed despite nearly being rammed by unforgiving metal and a cyclist in very tight shorts. The cyclist let his breath out, relieved he had avoided a collision. He put his feet to the ground, but left his helmet on for safety. He looked up at the man. “Yes? Can I help youwith something?”The man was taken aback by the fact that another human had suddenly recognized his existence. He scratched his head and looked around, confused by the situation. “Uuuuhm…” The man mumbled something incoherent to even dogs and other largeeared creatures.The cyclist continued to be ever so polite. “Can I help you sir?”“Have you seen my pen!? It’s a ballpoint. A blue one.”Without hesitating the cyclist took off his messenger bag and reached inside. “Do you mean this one?” He pulled out a beautiful new blue ballpoint pen.The man’s eyes lit up. “My pen! How did you? Where? But…”The cyclist held the pen out graciously. “Here you go.”The man grabbed the pen and quickly stuck it in his pocket. Again he mumbled something. One would hope the words thank you were contained somewhere in his reply.The cyclist looked kindly into the man’s eyes. “Now don’t you go losing that pen again. Never let it out of your sight. That is a mighty nice pen indeed. Is there anything else I can help you with?” A crowd was now forming around the man and the cyclist, for people were not used to such well spoken kindness on the citystreets.