Dylan hopped off the back of the train into the gritty morning and looked around at the concrete buildings tagged with graffiti.
He adjusted his dirty backpack on his shoulders as he walked toward the downtown skyline, carrying an old guitar case. He hoped this place would be different, that he would find a job here or someone kind enough to take him in.
The wind picked up, swirling leaves and dust around his ankles, and he felt the chill of fall in the air. He dreaded another winter spent without a home, huddling in any warm place he could find. At night he would linger in the fluorescent light of drugstores and supermarkets, wandering through isles filled with chips and paper towels until they kicked him out.
Once he got to town, he walked into a coffee shop to purchase a cup of coffee with the few dollars he had earned playing his guitar on the street corners of the last town he traveled through. The girl behind the counter was pretty and friendly enough, and suddenly Dylan felt self-conscious of the fact that his pants were crusted with dirt and his boots were beginning to get holes in the toes.
“What can I get for you?” the girl asked in a casual voice. She looked like one of the girls he might have gone to school with, and he thought she might have liked him if he looked like he did a year and a half ago. As he thought back to those years, he was filled with longing. His home life had not been great, but he had a bed to sleep in each night and food to eat for most meals. Even the thought of school cafeteria food made his mouth water, though years ago the smell had always made him cringe.
He ordered a small cup of coffee and handed the girl a crumpled dollar bill and a pile of coins. She took it and counted the change carefully before giving him the steaming liquid. He sat down at a table near the door and closed his palms around the paper cup, feeling its warmth. He drank slowly, letting it warm his throat, and noticed the occasional sideways glances from the other customers in the shop.
Dylan finished his coffee and left, the door clanging behind him. He found a street corner and sat down, pulling his old, out-of-tune guitar out of the case. He tuned it and began strumming an old folk song he knew, singing along, his voice strong and melodic. Every few songs, someone would walk by and drop and quarter or sometimes even a dollar into his guitar case. He played for three hours and it began getting dark, so he packed up and counted his change. He had four dollars. It was not much, but it was enough for dinner.
He was starving; he hadn’t eaten all day. He walked down the street to a fast food restaurant and bought a burger and fries. He still had a little over a dollar left for the next day, so he tucked his money away in his pocket and ate his burger quickly. He sat inside for a while afterwards, leaning against the wall, his legs stretched out in the hard plastic of the yellowing booth. As he began to doze off, he felt a tug on his shoulder and looked up to see a man in a white collared shirt and striped tie.
“Sir, I’m sorry, but you can’t sleep here,” said the man, staring at the backpack and the guitar case rather than Dylan.
The sun was behind the trees now, and the air had grown colder. Dylan shivered, tucking his hands deep in his pockets, hoping he could find a place to stay warm for the night.
What is a major theme of “You Can’t Sleep Here”? Support your answer using details from the text.
