The naked man followed a well dressed patron into the grocery store's gasoline pavilion. Multiple fully-clothed adults pointed in his direction, as though the presence of a wrinkled fifty year old sporting a birthday suit would escape my attention.I let the gent out. An unshaven but tanned face graced an otherwise pale body, sagging chest and modest pot belly. A street guy. Homeless.
"Where are your clothes?" I asked, trying not to laugh.
"That guy is wearing them." Mr. In The Buff pointed at the man he'd followed into the station - gold chains, spirited beach shirt, beige shorts and Jamaica-flagged flip-flops.
The poor clothed man, his presence in the melodrama due entirely to poor timing, stood dumbstruck, as though I would order some kind of exchange. "I love the flip flops," I offered. "Do you know him?"
"Christ no!"
As luck would have it, the next source of clothing - in the eyes of the neckid guy - was me.
"I'd look good in that," he said, pointing to my uniform.
Meanwhile, passersby took photos and video of him...and me...on a cloudless day in Colorado. It seems he'd thought his own clothing too soiled to wear and so he'd taken them off, wandering through a parking lot filled with afternoon traffic, hoping someone would donate their clothes to him.We got him out of there - off to a hospital.
I kept my uniform, and went home to a glass of wine. He got a towel and a place to stay for the night.
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