Rick pressed down hard on his brakes, a tiny little surge of fear entering his head as the van stopped. An adrenaline inked reminder that he needed new brakes which caused him to internally evaluate the gaps in his money stretching abilities. The van idled roughly at the red light and he tapped the gas. The engine smoothed out.

A man with a thick beard, roughly owned jungle camouflage pants, and a filthily ripped up Led Zeppelin t-shirt stood on the median. He held a cardboard sign which stated that he was homeless, hungry, a veteran, and willing to work.

The big white van turned hard onto the shoulder, crunching in the gravel and kicking up dust. The vagrant folded his sign, weaved through the parked traffic, and jogged up to the window.

“You lookin’ for work?” Rick asked.
“Yes, brother, I am,” the man stated as he ashamedly looked down towards his ragged boots, “what kinda work you got?”
“Roofing.”
“Fuck no, brother.”
“Thought you wanted to work?”
“That aint work, that’s like Egyptian slave labor.”