Patting

There is a homeless shelter on my street. Near the subway station. A couple of trailers parked on a small paved court. That's all. I walk past it every day. This is where W., the guy from whom I used to buy the paper, lives. I saw him a couple of times passing the large metal fences that mark the entrance.
The two guys walking in front of me in the street are young. One is wearing his pants so low that his belt is midway between his knee and his waist. The other is wearing a white sleeveless shirt showing a tattoo on each shoulders. The two guys seem to be arguing about something. Discussing loudly. I see them entering the shelter and both raise their hands as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
A security officer gives them a quick pat-down and they go on walking toward one of the trailers. They never stopped discussing. I wonder if they even noticed that they were searched.