He’s in his mid-30’s and pleasant looking. He sits on the bus stop bench at the corner of Redwood and McPherson. Whenever Wilson (my 13-year old dog) and I walk by, our interaction usually goes like this:

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine. How’re you?”

“Fine.”

“Have a good one.”

“You, too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

This time, my “How’re you doing?” is responded with “Not so good.”

I stop. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the same old thing day after day.”

I imagine it is. He sits on this bench nearly all day every day.

“People either accost me for money or ask if I want to buy drugs. I tell them no, but they keep harassing me. I don’t know what to do about it. There’s no solution.”

I can think of one: Stop sitting on this bench nearly all day every day.

“I guess I’ll have to eventually get the cops involved.”

“That might help.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

My advice to stop sitting on that bench becomes a metaphor for handling my own troubles.

I don’t know what to do about the five extra pounds I can’t seem to shake.

• Stop sitting on that bench: stop eating Cyrus O’Leary’s chocolate cream pies and work out more.

But my body aches after I work out.

• Stop sitting on that bench: stretch for 10-15 minutes after each workout.

I don’t have time to do that, so let’s change the subject.

When Gary goes on a whistling marathon, I want to yell at him.

• Stop sitting on that bench: eat a Cyrus O’Leary’s chocolate cream pie and you’ll feel better.

But then I won’t lose these five pounds.

• Stop sitting on that bench: work out more.

But then my body will ache all the time.

• Stop sitting on that bench: then stretch more.

This all seems like too much trouble.

• Keep sitting on your stupid bench and shut the hell up!

You shut up!

No, you shut up!

And so it goes.

My friend and I continue to sit on our respective benches.