Being an Uber driver in Milwaukee is a one-of-a-kind experience that let’s Dave Begel meet some of the most interesting people, residents as well as visitors to the city. Everybody has a story and Tales of the Road will highlight  some of those stories. The stories have been edited into quotes from riders. Sometimes names have been omitted or changed to preserve the privacy of his passengers.

It’s 7:45, the morning after Christmas, and the Downtown streets of Milwaukee are virtually deserted since almost everything is closed.

I dropped a family off at the train station and was cruising, waiting for someone else who might need an Uber ride to somewhere. I was headed north on Van Buren, stopping by the light at the intersection with Wisconsin Avenue.

That's when I saw him.

He was sitting on top of a manhole cover, struggling to put blankets over himself and being incredibly unsuccessful with the task. He kept rolling back and forth trying to get his backside situated in the best spot and trying to organize three different, small blankets. Wearing a knit cap and hooded sweatshirt under a winter jacket. Jeans and shoes without laces. I pulled to the side of the road and asked if he needed something.

"Nah," he replied. "Just getting warm. You got any cigarettes?"

I didn’t, but I was reluctant to move on. The contrast between Christmas surrounded by family and food and this elderly black man sitting on a manhole cover was stark, and moving.

I started to ask him questions, and he responded, sometimes sensibly and other times in a kind of language I’d never heard before.

His name, he said, was Leander Johnson. I asked him how old he was, and he didn’t know. He said he was around "50 or 60 or 84." Did he grow up in Wisconsin?

"I think so," he said. "Maybe but I was in (unintelligible) when I was a boy."

Are you alone out here, do you have family?

"They got tired of me," he said. "I don’t blame them. See I’ve got this talking in my head. Not all the time. Sometimes. And they can’t hear it. Can I have a cigarette?"

I took iPhone pictures of Leander, and he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind my curiosity either.

I asked him how long he’d been on the street.

"Since 10:30," he replied. No, I meant how long was he homeless. "Forever yesterday or tomorrow."

He struggled to his feet and started to cross the street with empty arms.

"Hey Leander," I said. "Take your blankets."

"Oh," he said, bending over to fold the three blankets over his arm. And he started to trudge off. He shuffled to the stately Pfister Hotel where one of those outside astray canisters was located outside the entrance. He dug his hand into it but came up with no butts, so he turned and continued walking west down the street that is the heart of Milwaukee.

I had no idea what to do about Leander Johnson. I had asked if he wanted a ride somewhere, and he said no. I pulled my money clip from my pocket and counted. I had 11 dollars, a five and six singles.

I pulled up next to him at the corner of Water and Wisconsin and offered him all the money. He took it and put it into his jacket as he said something that sounded like "klaxon dismerrling."

He crossed the street and walked into the Dunkin’ Donuts in the Chase Bank building. I watched through the window as he stood in line, bought something and walked to a table and sat down.

That was my Uber morning on the day after Christmas.