It wasn’t terribly cold on the streets of Ann Arbor, I still remember, though I can’t remember why I even noticed that. I’ve grown accustomed to near hypothermia, as any wind-chill is enough to send me, a 113-pound Tim Burton sketch, retreating to the solace of blankets and space heaters alike. It goes without saying, then, that I was freezing that day, but, evidently, not terribly.

The most tactile of memories wasn’t the temperature, however, but that I felt filthy. I was unhygienic that day, something I would adamantly avoid on any other day. That day was different, though, as I had spent the previous two days traveling with a group of music students, an archetype I couldn’t fit if I tried- too cynical, too aloof, too quiet. I spent the previous night desperately trying to fall asleep atop a terribly cold hotel room floor, and the next morning frantically gathering the clothes I had spilled over myself to substitute for a blanket. I didn’t even think to shower then, but after I arrived, the way my hair had thinned and glued to the sides of my face made it so a shower was all I could think of.

Among the chiseled, Urban Outfitter-clad University of Michigan students strutting around the street that day, I was a pale, sleep-deprived, greasy zombie. Worse than that, my utter homeliness actually stuck out amongst the passersby, and I felt like a carnival display. Soon enough, I found myself turning up my collar to obscure my face and sheepishly peering out at the numerous eyes shooting judgmental lasers beams in my direction. I was a monster-until I turned to my right, that is, and witnessed what I can only describe as a miracle.

In that moment, I noticed that the people passing me by weren’t scoffing at me, but at the unholy sight just two feet to my right, something I got too caught up in my own hyperbole to notice. It seems as if some god of mischief heard me subconsciously claim to be a hideous monster and somehow took that as a challenge. “A monster!?” I imagined him exclaiming, “I’ll show you a monster!”

And he did. What stood next to me looked like he may once have been a student at the prestigious University, but lost his way with the help of some particularly indulgent extracurricular activities, rendering him the shaggy-haired, toothless abomination that staggered in place before me. He didn’t say a word, but his mouth hung open just so his three teeth protruded from his rotted gums like stalactites- just as jagged, and just as yellow. His mouth was a horror by definition, but crumbled in comparison to what he held in his hand.

Picture a homeless person in a cartoon- go on, I’ll give you a second- you probably picture one of two accessories: A bindle, slung over their shoulder and holding the few items they call their own, or a metal can, used for begging and accentuated by the occasional clanging of the few coins lying at the bottom. This man took both of these concepts one step closer to comical perfection. He held onto a long, rotted wooden stick that stood nearly two feet over his head. Attached to the stick was a chain, and to the chain, a rusty fishing hook. What hang from the hook was a partially smashed silver can, complete with a lid that clung hung crookedly to the side, and a strip of masking tape with the words “thank you” crudely written on it. This man was a walking cartoon, but not a miracle. Not yet, at least.

After watching this man mindlessly dangle his money jar uncomfortably close to strangers while never shifting his gaze for what must have been five minutes, a short burst of honking horns and obscenities startled me, but not the homeless man in the slightest. What we both failed to notice is what the commotion was directed towards- another construct of the god of chaos I mentioned earlier, but one much stockier, much older, and much more aggressive.

I didn’t get a good look at this abomination, as he was running so quickly across the street and in my direction, but I could tell that he represented everything the fishing pole-wielding spectacle had lacked. He was a middle-aged, stocky troll of a man, clad in a ripped pair of jeans and a wife-beater shirt alone. “Perhaps he was running from the frigid winds,” I thought to myself, but the fiery look in his eyes gave wind of something much more malicious. He was running, with a ferocity I had never imagined possible, in the direction of the first beggar.

I braced for some epic battle to unfold, in which the much taller, hook-wielding hero would be forced to hold his own against the speedy gremlin that pursued him so viciously, and for a second, I thought I would see precisely that. Fortunately for the well-being of these two men, nothing of the sort happened, but the situation certainly did escalate. Once the running man strode into contact with the other one, he hit his head on the dangling metal can and abruptly halted, facing the direction in which he was running rather than his new adversary. I’ll never forget the palpable hatred that seemed to quite literally steam out of this man’s broad nostrils as he froze like that tin can was the gaze of Medusa. “Oh god,” I thought, “I’m about to witness the most primal of human instincts take place.”

The shorter man, now appearing much less threatening, turned angrily to the man, tried his best to pull together what torn relics he retained of the English language, and exclaimed, “Why’d you have to hit me like that, man!?” in what was either some obscure accent or a series of speech impediments. Even more miraculous was the taller, docile man’s rebuttal, which came after a moment of delayed awareness of the whole situation that had just unfolded. The mere fact that his eyes shifted from the pavement amazed me enough, but how utterly offended he was by the accusation was even more intriguing. “I got a bad arm. I can’t help it!” he spat back at his stumpy foe, and the two scowled at each other for no less than thirty seconds- an eerily long time for wordless, unblinking eye contact. This was to be the cover of the comic adaptation of their legendary encounter, I anticipated as they leered at each other with a visceral hatred.

Then, to my surprise, the hatred just left them. They broke eye contact, and the taller man redirected his focus to the ground, planting himself yet again in his twisted state of something between inebriation and meditation. After a longer pause, the shorter man pivoted back in his initial direction and bolted away from the scene.

I was filled with questions. Where was the shorter guy going? How long had the fish pole-wielding guy been standing there before I discovered him? What did I just witness? The answer to the final question came quite clearly as I turned my head to all the people no longer perplexed or disgusted by me. I had witnessed a miracle. Not an act of some god, like I said earlier, but the mere notion that I wasn’t the pinnacle of everyone’s scrutiny at the end of the day.