Cross-walking in front of me is a man who doesn’t look familiar. He could be anyone with a beard and baggy clothes. I fixate on him anyway. He’s carrying a black plastic shopping bag with what looks like a six pack of tall boys inside–PBR’s my best guess, but I’m not 100 percent sure.

That could’ve been me for an evening, I think, while waiting for the light to turn green. But it’s not now that I have a job and a bike and a wife and this backpack of frozen veggie burgers and bananas that I’ll add to my oatmeal in the morning when I wake up for work again. 

I get this song stuck in my head as I ride. It goes: Black plastic bag filled with six packs a beer. And I sing it over and over to myself. Across MAX tracks and over The 84. Up one street, down the next. I’m looking both ways on one ways, going up the hill and home the same way I always do.