"Smile, you're on 'Candid Camera,'" he jokes as he gazes at two young women in a bright red Cabriolet at Campbell Avenue and Speedway Boulevard

He's there selling newspapers for Tucson Newspapers, Inc., and his usual post is the east island across from the Plaza Hotel.

His name is Kenneth, and he says he "burns up" out there sometimes. His dark brown, leathery neck absorbs the sun, and his glazed-over blue eyes scan the street for people who want a paper.

His hair and scruffy beard are turning gray, and his tattered clothes smell of alcohol.

The smell of Saturday's exhaust surrounds us.

The women in that shiny red car return Kenneth's smile and drive east down Speedway. But, they don't purchase a paper.

Kenneth says he loves watching beautiful women drive by.

"It makes the time pass," he says, "but sex and newspapers are different things."

Kenneth is a homeless man who's been in Tucson for two months. It took him two months to get here after hitchhiking from Chicago, where he moved furniture for 25 years.

He came here because it was "too damn cold" in Chicago where he grew up. He made a stop in Birmingham, Ala., to see his parents. They've been married for over 50 years.

Kenneth is not married.

"I'm a loner," he says.

He moves from town to town not knowing what to expect the next day. In a couple weeks, he might head to Las Vegas to clean floors.

Hawkers like Kenneth are called "independent contractors," and he is one of about 100 who sell papers at intersections all over the city.

He usually works from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. For his time, he makes about ten dollars, excluding tips.

"This work will drive you crazy," he says.

I ask him what he spends his money on.

"Tramps don't care about food," he says. "We care about alcohol."

He takes a sip from a cup filled with beer.

I spoke with Kenneth on Saturday, but he tells me that Sunday is his big money day. He loves the feeling of his pockets filled with singles.

Sunday's Arizona Daily Star sells for $1.50, and people usually give him $2.

"That's 50 cents for alcohol," he says.

At night, he'll "crash out anywhere." Sometimes it's on a bus-stop bench, sometimes it's in an abandoned building, or sometimes, it's at Walgreens to pick up alcohol.

At night, he enjoys vodka. Mornings are a different story.

"I want to wake up with a cold beer in my hand," he says.

Old Milwaukee is his beer of choice.

He turns and calls out to a man in a forest-green Ford Taurus.

"Hey, how ya' doin' boss? I'm talkin' to a reporter! Want an interview?"

The man lets off a small smile, says nothing and drives away.

Kenneth looks curiously at me as I write.

"You're like a young Clark Kent," he says. "I like you, man."

He shows me the lunch he got earlier from a free kitchen. A hard-boiled egg, a bologna sandwich, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a package of crackers satisfy him just fine.

"They're good people over there," he says. "Most people don't care about the homeless."

He says he despises panhandlers who hold up signs on the street to "make" money.

"I couldn't do that. My mother would roll over in her grave," he says.

"Some of 'em brag about it," he continues. "They say, 'I panhandled 60 bucks today.'"

"It makes me sad what they do. At least what I do is honest work."

Smoke from his cigarette meanders by my nose.

I ask him if he enjoys his lifestyle.

"I think I enjoy it - killin' myself, abusin' my body," he says.

"Nobody put us here. We put ourselves here. It's not a hard life. I just don't let anyone fuck with me..."

My time with Kenneth was short. Before I left, our eyes met, and we both smiled.

That day, we signed a silent pact of friendship.

I shook his sun-darkened hand, turned, and rode away from harsh reality.

I remember him saying, "A lot of people make a living off this island. Some of 'em got wives, ya' know."

Now I know, and I'll never forget that everybody has a story.

Adam Djurdjulov is a journalism junior.