In downtown Portland, Oregon, I’ve parked alongside the public library; my friends, traveling in another car (also parked on the same block), want to look for shoes in a store around the corner before we head out of town. The procedure for procuring parking in the spaces we’ve found involves making a payment at a kiosk, then placing the printed-out card in the windshield. I walk over to the kiosk to pay, and notice that there’s a homeless man leaning up against the side of the structure. His belongings are piled up next to him, and he’s busy fussing with something in his lap. He seems completely oblivious to my presence as I begin operating the machine. I, however, can hardly be oblivious to his, as there’s a strong odor emanating from his unwashed clothes, and his exposed arms are covered in abscessed sores. In my haste to get the transaction over with I push the wrong buttons, and have to repeat the procedure several times before it works. I take my printed card, place it in the window of my car, and wait for my friend to do the same. Standing by my car for a while, finally look over and see my friend trying to insert a dollar into the machine (which I know from having read the instructions, won’t work). I walk back over to the machine to assist him. We exchange glances as the homeless man shifts position at our feet, a tacit acknowledgment of our mutual chagrin at the absurd, inescapable situation we are now caught up in. We complete the transaction and proceed to the fancy shoe store, where my friend finds his shoes. The homeless man is gone when we arrive back at our vehicles some twenty minutes later.