We weren’t friends per se. But I knew him.

I don’t know how it started. I’d wake up in the mornings, hop in the truck, and drive to a nearby gas station. I’d buy a newspaper. A weak cup of joe.

The old guy was usually there. Waiting outside the gas station, smoking a cigarette.

He looked ancient. Bushy gray beard—stained orange from tobacco. His face was painted with a thousand wrinkles. His shoes were falling apart.

He carried a backpack the size of a Buick, which usually sat at his feet. He had a little dog with him named Rufus.

“Rufus is a purebred,” he’d always say. “Heinz 57 breed.”

“In the afternoon,” said the gas-station cashier, “he always asked customers for handouts, but never in the mornings. I don’t know why he didn’t ask for handouts in the mornings.”

I do. Because he was hungover.

“Either way, someone always bought him a cup of coffee,” the cashier went on. “And if someone didn’t, we’d let him have as much free coffee as he wanted.”

His name changed each time we talked. Once, he was Jerry. Another time, he was Ron. He’d been Apollo, James, Ricky, you name it. Who knows what his name was.

He’d talk about anything. He’d cuss politicians. Talk about this current generation’s selfish ways. He’d talk of Vietnam. Then, inevitably, he’d usually talk about God.

God was one of his go-to subjects. I guess you get to know God pretty well when you’re homeless.

Sometimes, he’d preach a little. And his sermons always came off flat because of the gin on his breath. Still, I’d give him plenty of Amens, and then I’d wish him a good day. And he’d always—always—God bless me.

Whereupon he’d heft his backpack onto his frail back, and set off for heaven only knows where.

Sometimes I’d see him on the side of the road, walking steadily onward. Through the rain. Through the snow. I caught him outside Walmart a few times. I saw him outside Target.

I saw him at the intersection of University and 280, holding a sign written on cardboard. “Vietnam veteran,” it read. “God bless.”

Today, however, I went to the gas station, and I didn’t see him. It has been a few weeks since I’ve been home. I’ve been out of town.

I bought coffee and asked the cashier where the old guy was. The cashier’s face changed. I knew it wasn’t good.

“You haven’t heard?”

I guess not.

“One of his friends came in last week and told us he passed away. Didn’t say how it happened. But he said he was a bad diabetic.”

So it was a strange morning for me, with no old man standing by the door. It felt empty somehow. And incomplete.

I wondered if there wasn’t something I should have done. Maybe I could have stopped his death. Or maybe not. I don’t know.

I asked what happened to his dog.

“Who, Rufus?” said the cashier. “I got him. I took him home. He’s a good dog, but I feel bad. All Rufus does is sit by the door and wait for his daddy to come back. Breaks my heart, you know?”

Yes, ma’am. Yes I do.