I saw a row of four orange trucks across the street from Durham Athletic Park. These old guys -- still in use, I think -- reminded me of another era. I liked the way their orange paint popped against the green background. So, I stopped to take a picture. And then I noticed a sliver of an alley between a brick building and a structure slapped with corrugated metal. Though I didn't know it then, that ally was an entry way to Juan's living room. When I emerged on the other side, I saw Juan standing by what looked like some kind of green metal chute on wheels, also from another era and now used as his bed.
Juan graciously showed me his home, where he hangs his clothes, where he sits on a piece of cardboard and thinks and laments and worries about what will happen to him next. He told me about his home in Honduras, his work as a backhoe operator and his fondness for Chinese cuisine. He showed me the bed that he fashioned from a green tarp and piece of foam. This is his living space. He opened the black plastic bag used as a curtain and invited me to look in. As I looked and we talked, I could hear the muffled roar of the crowd across the street every time the baseball popped off of the bat.
He said he feels stuck even though he's free in the flesh.