He lived in that Arbor Oaks apartment complex on Mary Avenue and he ordered food, probably 3-5 times a week, Of course I didn’t take it every time. He was an older black guy in a wheel chair. There was a call button on the front and he’d let you in the vestibule and I’d knock on his door. He was the first door, right there. He was missing both his legs and it just reeked. It smelled like rotten flesh. It was like he couldn’t heal. Every time I went there, there was blood leaking through a bandage. He was in a wheel chair and his two little leg nubs would stick straight out and man it fuckin’ stunk.

He was not sad. He wasn’t nasty, wasn’t nice, probably waiting for the end. The rotten odor was really bad, like a dead body sitting in heat for a long time. He had no personality. My opinion as he had given up on life: no expression, no smile, no frown. He was always by is self. Six seven months, I’d go there twice a week. The other drivers all knew him. He tipped spare change, very small, maybe a dollar. He was alone with his rotten-ass legs. I didn’t mind going there—man had to eat. If he wasn’t indifferent I probably would have went on my day off and took him out for a drink, but he was just a depressed type guy.