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“They’re hot! They’re hot! Get ’em now! Just three dollars!”

Some people ignored him while others laughed at his attempt to be a nickel-and-dime hustler just like the rest of us. Five minutes (and two rummy losses) later, the same guy came through the common area.

“They’re hot! They’re hot! Get ’em now! Just three dollars! Size thirty-eight.”

Still no sale, although one guy inquired if he had any other sizes.

“What size do you wear?” he asked.

“Thirty-four.”

“Well you’re in luck! I’ll be right back.”

He came back a minute later with the same pair of jeans and a belt, a worthy attempt at selling them as one size fits all.

Still no takers, but he was persistent, convinced that he was offering the deal of a lifetime. A few minutes later he was back with one last round through the common area.

“Relaxed fit, boot cut! They’re hot! Last chance! Just marked down! Two ninety-nine plus tax!”

He never sold the jeans, but I found that deals like that would come along nearly every night. Two weeks after my arrival at the shelter, I got a brand new pair of Adidas sneakers—crispy, still in the box—for $7. Tax included. They were a size or so too big, and they looked like snow shoes on my feet, but I learned that you can’t be picky on the size when you’re catching a deal like that.

And then there was the cigarette trade. The cigarette trade was huge for me. Everybody smoked. People would line up for smoke breaks like they were getting tickets to a Red Sox–Yankees playoff game. It was the only time that we were allowed outside of the shelter walls after check-in. While I was one of the few nonsmokers at the shelter, even my lack of desire to start didn’t hinder my judgment that participating in the 9:00 and 10:30 smoke breaks was a key ingredient in my social agenda.

So I purchased a carton of Mavericks for $6 from “Cigarette Man.” (Even though I never caught a few guys’ names, some guys were only known by the product that they pushed. Throughout my two months in the shelter, there were always three or four guys—either in the shelter or waiting outside the shelter before check-in—selling products at a huge discount. We all knew—or could find out—where to go if we wanted DVDs or clothes or bulk cigarettes on the cheap.) With a pack of cigarettes in hand, I would always be able to answer “yes” when someone asked me if I had a cigarette. While the secondhand smoke was perhaps just as harmful to my lungs, I sacrificed for five or so minutes at a time as I would have the opportunity to speak with my new friends. Aside from dinnertime conversation, smoke breaks with the fellas from the shelter were the most vital link to understanding where these guys had come from. It’s where I really got to know Leo and Rico and Billy. It’s where I heard about Larry’s day on the garbage route and his struggles to get out of the shelter. It’s where everybody talked about (nay, argued about) current events in the world of politics and beyond. Everybody had a story to tell, and over time, it became clearer that nobody minded talking.

But the cigarette trade wasn’t just about my being taken advantage of on a nightly basis. Realizing that I would need to slow down with my generosity, I followed suit with everybody else in the shelter and started charging the guys to whom I had already given a cigarette. The going rate for a cigarette was 25¢. For whatever reason, everybody always had a quarter, but they rarely saved up to buy a full pack. So as time passed, when they came to me, they would either come to buy or trade. Two cigarettes could be traded for one 50¢ discount bus pass (good for a one-way ride on CARTA; they were given to us by our caseworkers based on need), or three cigarettes could be traded for a can of Coke. Early on, I became a hustler just like everybody else. While it didn’t work quite as much to my advantage financially as I had expected, I got to know many people in the process.

And it was so genuine. If there’s one good thing about being homeless, it’s the realness of the relationships.