“He was a nice guy,” T.J. said, “The first time I met him was because he left his stuff [in a locker] and they cut the locks. They would have a cleanup day once a month and you’re not supposed to leave your lock there overnight.”

Frank’s heart must have skipped a beat when he first realized his stuff was gone. Lucky for him, T.J. had set it aside. That was the beginning of a friendship that made Frank’s life a little easier. When he found out that Frank sometimes got held up working the streets too long to make it to the gym in time to shower, T.J. started letting him in after closing time (which is when T.J. does his own workouts, anyway). T.J. also introduced Frank to Instagram, which has become the centerpiece of his flag business’ social media marketing efforts.

“I know how it is to not have anything. And he was really, like, a great person. He wasn’t a dick or anything,” said T.J., recalling a period during which family issues — including his mom’s leaving to California for cancer treatment — left him unexpectedly forced to live on his own for several months. He was 18 and ended up on his feet, but it was enough to serve as the foundation for the empathy he’s shown Frank.

“I hope that one day, if I’m ever in that position, bro, that someone gives a handout to me. Even though I don’t really ask for handouts, but it would still be nice, you know what I’m saying?”

When Frank met Ivan, Ivan advised him to use the Instagram account T.J. had created to reach out directly to local business owners looking for work. That was how Frank met Kevin Danilo, one of the owners of Batch Gastropub, a popular bar and restaurant in Downtown Miami’s Brickell neighborhood.

“It sounded like he had had a rough time,” Kevin said, “but [he is a] super positive guy. He was trying to do things the right way and it was impressive to see somebody who had been kicked around a little bit, but still had it in him to pick himself back up, do it on his own, do things the right way.”

Unfortunately, Kevin wasn’t able to help Frank out with employment. All he could offer Frank was work during night shifts, and because Frank sleeps in his car, getting shuteye during hot Miami days would be practically impossible (not to mention unsafe). Still, much came of the connection. For instance, when Frank posted some photos on Instagram of his dangerously worn-down tires, Kevin gave him a call and told him to have them replaced. Kevin would foot the bill.

“I’ll put it on the resume for when I get up to the pearly gates,” Kevin joked. “You know, you’ve got to show your credentials.”

Frank’s not exactly sure what motivates these people (and many others like them) to help him out. After all, not every street vendor has a marketing professional, a gym manager and a restaurateur in his corner. Maybe, Frank said, it’s that they see him refuse to quit despite having the odds stacked against him. Maybe they became invested while pulling for an underdog.

“Even now it gives me goosebumps,” said Frank as he remembered the day that Ivan told him he was “on board” to help. “I said, ‘Man, if I have somebody like him in my corner, somebody who’s a consultant, a marketing guy, and he wants to help… Wow.’ It’s hope. Man, you take hope from somebody like me, depression will kick in. You’ll give up. He gave me hope. That energizes me. It does something. When you’re down, you look for things that will motivate you. If you don’t look, you’ll stagnate and you’ll perish ... You don’t want to stay in the reality of what my life is. It sucks. But you’ve got to find things that make it not suck so bad, you know?”

Powering through

Frank is really good at finding things to be optimistic about. But to say that a lot of Frank’s life reality sucks is putting it mildly. Not too long ago, Frank had a boat. These days, during fishing season, he works some days cleaning and waxing boats for a guy named Captain Mario, who has a small fishing charter business. Except for this summer, that is; Mario’s on an extended trip, which leaves Frank without some of the income he usually counts on to eat and pay the bills during South Florida summers, when frequent downpours make selling flags an even less viable way to make a living.

I tagged along with him for the better part of a day to get a look at what his routine looks like. Here’s how that went. We started at that L.A. Fitness in Cutler Bay, where Frank had showered before meeting me. He stuck around there a while waiting for a UPS driver and checking in with him by phone to find out when he’d be arriving. He was waiting on a small shipment of 4”x6” “thin blue line” flags that he was hoping to sell to some local cops. Not having a permanent address means that when Frank gets his inventory, he needs to use the addresses of friends or friendly businesses, where he either meets delivery drivers or hopes he can count on management to accept shipments and hang onto them for him. Needless to say, this isn’t the ideal way to run a business, but he doesn’t have many better options.

After lunch, while on our way to the storage unit about 20 minutes from the gym, we stopped by a dry cleaner. Frank had realized that the button on his shorts had fallen off, so he was looking for a safety pin to close them back up. Thankfully, these people know and like Frank, too. The elderly Colombian seamstress who gave Frank a button and put it on the shorts for him told me he’s good people and that she wishes she could understand how a guy like him can’t find a steady job. Of course, there’s a lot she’s never understood about him; she doesn’t speak English and he doesn’t speak Spanish. But still, she’s seen him around enough to know he’s worth helping. Frank gave her a big hug and they kissed each other’s cheeks before parting ways, Frank going on loudly in his born-a-salesman kind of way, and the Colombian seamstress telling me, “Es un loco,” through a grin. That guy’s crazy.

After we arrived at the warehouse and Frank got through helping Summer find the right pirate flag, the next order of business was prepping flags for a day on the street. Helping him out with it was a time-consuming process due to the fact that he’s got limited space to keep his inventory and even less space to transport it in his Scion. I imagine it usually takes much longer since the norm is for him to do it all himself. The ritual involves a lot of unpacking (his flag distributor sends them individually wrapped, but Frank sells them without their plastic packaging) and counting (he keeps them in bundles of 10 so he can get quick at-a-glance counts. Until recently, the smaller flags came to him wrapped tightly around their flagpoles, so Frank would use an outlet about 50 feet away from his unit to iron them one by one. These individually wrapped flags might seem insignificant, but they’ve made a difference in his day-to-day.

Everything goes into a wire cart about three feet tall, and he’s got packing that thing down to a precise science. A combination of plastic bins and milk crates keeps everything accessible, while a couple of dumbbells at the bottom keep the wind from knocking it all to the ground. Two five-foot flags — one American, one Cuban — are affixed to the cart, making him pretty hard to miss no matter which red light you’re at on his intersection.

The finishing touch is a rigid plastic sign — with several dozen flags stuck into the top of it. One side reads:

LAID OFF 3 YEARS

HAD TO CREATE A JOB

IT'S BEEN A LONG JOURNEY

I'M MAKING PROGRESS

Broke and trying to survive

PLEASE BUY SO I CAN EAT

#Frankiesjourney

It's been four years since Frank was laid off, but he hasn't had the money necessary to create an updated sign. The other side (he flips it around periodically to make sure you see the whole message) reads:

TERRITORY & ACCOUNT MANAGER RÉSUMÉ