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For years I had kept a flight journal, a daily record on aircraft performance, weather and the people I met across America. When I began to get serious about fiction, I searched the writing for plots. None were there. But I did see characters rising from the mist, like a wanderer named Boyle. In Boyle there existed a beginning, middle and end to the man standing before me on the sidewalk, an envelope of meaning, a glittering spirit behind the smudged face.

Once we landed and put the plane to bed, I often had time to explore. I’d leave the hotel for a walk, to view the world, my only responsibility. On a fall day, here’s what I found.

I wasn’t sure if the man I met wandering the streets of Kansas City was a homeless person or just a bum. According to the definition, a bum is someone “who avoids work and seeks to live off others.” But the person I met never asked for money. A friend once told me hobos occasionally appeared at their front door when she was a child. Her mother would talk with the man for a few minutes before inviting him in for something to eat. Inside, the kids sat around the kitchen table bug-eyed, quietly watching the strange man eat everything on his plate. Afterwards he’d do some chores for the mom, then leave. That wasn’t my guy either.

After arriving Thursday night, the next morning I took a walk through downtown to the Missouri River. The day was brisk and the November sky overcast. A few blocks from the hotel, waiting for the light to turn green, I spotted an enormous man clutching a dark plastic garbage bag close to his body.

He was an unshaven giant with a full head of tangled hair. His winter jacket, split in a dozen places with the stuffing protruding, was held together by large safety pins. He held the partially-filled garbage bag with one hand, and with the other protected his heart with a rolled-up newspaper. He greeted me loudly and I sensed his hunger to talk.

“You know, this city is dying,” he said. “They’re all dead, or soon will be.”

I didn’t feel any immediate danger and my pace had been slow all morning. I noticed the motorists staring at us-a giant ragtag beast holding conference with a short guy in a London Fog. I caught sight of a child pointing at us as his parents threw nervous glances.

“You know, you’re going to learn something. This city, like many cities across this country, is full of the dead. I was born here. I have family here. My dad once worked for the Kansas City Star. There’s a pogrom going on here. Do you know what a pogrom is?”

I told him I had a good idea.

“I’m dogged everywhere I go. They know what I know, and I’m ignored or tormented because of it. Some young punks stole a suitcase I had, full of research. I had articles, books, notes-I was reaching a conclusion on the state of our educational system in this country.” He scanned the winter sky for some response but only the wind touched his face.

“Every night from up on the hill the curses begin. Teenagers scream curses at me throughout the night. Rat! They call me rat and other names. Even at the mission they’re starting to avoid me. They know I’m an agnostic-a secular humanist. Do you know what that is?”

“Sure,” I replied, attempting to leave. It was a half-hearted run, and the force of his story blocked my escape. He fought with the world at large less like a victim and more like a medieval monk challenging demons at every turn.

“I’m a scholar. I could show you step by step the rotten state of mathematics, then show you how to bring out the soul in science again.”

His use of the word soul brought to mind the pretty young woman who checked me into the Allis hotel. Genetics attempted to fashion a classically beautiful face, yet the eyes were not properly spaced and the cheekbones lacked prominence. But looking down at her paperwork she was transfigured. Eyes downcast, head slightly lowered, was the angle of her beauty. It was as if I had glanced over to see a Greek goddess tying her sandal.

I stood quiet and attentive on the street corner, warmed by the young woman’s image.

“People don’t read anymore,” the man shouted. “Do you know the great bookstores in New York City? I do. I lived there for three and a half years and researched continuously and never worked. Yet I had what I needed. Borrowed ten dollars once and paid it back. Think about it. Can you figure it out? Never worked!”

“Sounds like a Zen koan to me,” I answered.

My remark startled my wandering scholar. Maybe he didn’t hear what I said. He switched to French, uttering several phrases, then swerved back to English and the topic of money.

“Of course, I don’t need to be paid millions for my research-what I have to offer.” He rubbed his dirty face, squinting at the sky. “Maybe a few hundred thousand will be adequate.”

He continued to talk, watching my escape with a bewildered look, as I sidled away.

“My name is Boyle,” he yelled.

“I’ll remember you,” I yelled back.

The wind increased. It became colder underneath a soft marble sky. I was thinking of a cup of coffee and the girl who worked the front desk. Boyle was too fired up, too alive to be labeled homeless or a simple vagrant. I wanted to believe that he was scheming to get back into life; that one day he’d find his way to the Allis hotel. And perhaps the same young woman would wait on him, glancing down at her paperwork, jolting Boyle with her beauty.

Fred Tribuzzo has been a commercial pilot for over thirty years, flying everything from a J-3 Cub to the fastest corporate jet ever made-the Citation Ten. This lifelong pursuit led to his memoir, American Sky. To learn more about Fred’s Christmas book, Saint Nick, and other writing projects, visit http://www.fredtribuzzo.com.