A downtown Denver homeless man turned the tables on me a few weeks ago. He gave me money. He pressed eight quarters into my hand and waved away my offer of two $1 bills.

"Tonight's my night," he told me. "I'm happy to help."

I knew I'd lived in Colorado Springs too long when I began to recognize the homeless there. Or maybe, that meant I'd finally lived there long enough. The black guy with the dreadlocks, toothy smile and over-sized trench coat was not a stranger to me, and certainly not someone I feared. He was a part of the community, someone whose face was nearly as familiar to me as the mayor's. If he was mentally ill, drug- or alcohol-addicted, it never showed.

Colorado Springs also had its share of alcoholic and mentally ill homeless folks, people whom you avoided on the sidewalk, whose behavior was erratic, their pleas for cash demanding, sometimes frighteningly insistent. But these, too, I came to recognize.

I don't expect to become as familiar with Denver's homeless as I did with Colorado Springs. The city is too big, and if the first few months are any indication, I will be an irregular downtown visitor. But I suspect I'd recognize my unlikely benefactor again.

I'd been circling the downtown area for nearly 15 minutes on a Wednesday night last month, searching for a parking spot whose fee was not greater than the amount I planned to spend that evening. My friend had long ago arrived at our destination, a margarita bar in Denver's toniest block.

"I'm here," I told her. "I just can't find a place to park!"

Then, I saw it - a metered parking spot about three blocks north of the street on which we were to meet. Downtown meters are free after 8 p.m., so this was a find. All I needed were 10 quarters to feed the thing until it closed its gaping maw for the night.

I did a smashing job of parallel parking, and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

About 10 feet from me stood a man, bending down to pick something up from the gutter. He was bearded and mustached, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that hung loosely from his thin frame. A shopping cart, only partially filled with a few indistinguishable items, appeared to wait like a weary and loyal steed on the sidewalk next to him.

He looked up, saw me and held out his arm to show me something small and flat in his hand.

"I knew this was gonna happen!," he said. "I've had this feeling all day."

He grinned, so widely I responded in kind.

"I found $45!" he said, pointing into the gutter. "Two twenties here and a five there.

"Thank God! Thank you, God! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

He wanted, like anyone who makes an extraordinary find or just learns some unexpected good news, to share it with someone. And that was me.

"Wow, that's great," I said, and tried to get a closer look at his eyes. I could see no evidence in them or his manner that he was drunk, drugged or otherwise impaired. He was simply happy. "I bet you need that more than whoever lost it."

"Oh God, I sure do," he said. "I really do."

I had fished out my wallet by then and rummaged in its depths for quarters. I found two.

"I'm gonna have me a good dinner tonight," the man said. "I'm gonna get me some chicken-fried steak and some mashed potatoes. I'm gonna eat good."

He did a little dance on the sidewalk, raising his arms skyward and circling around in an awkward jig.

His joy was infectious, but not enough to distract me from my own plight. I stood, in perplexed frustration, at the meter, uncertain what to do next. Walking three blocks down and back, in high heels, seemed a daunting task.

"Hey," he said. "You need some money?"

I looked at him, not knowing how to respond. "I -"

"I think I got some quarters," he said. "Let me look."

He rummaged in a bag nestled in his shopping cart. "Yeah, I do."

He held out his hand, and I opened mine. Into it he dropped eight quarters.

I protested. "Listen, I've got a couple of dollars. Let me -"

He held up a hand to stop me in mid-sentence. "No. No ma'am. That's on me. Tonight, I've got plenty."

For a moment, he was as distinguished a gentleman as any I had ever met.

"You enjoy your night," he said.

"Well," I said, failing to find more words. "You, too."

"Oh, I will," he said, wrapping his hands around the cart handle and pushing it away from me, down the street. "I sure will. Thank the good Lord."

I walked down the street behind him until he turned left, toward a neon sign that blared, "Diner."

I smiled all the way to the bar, where my friend waited.

"There you are!" she said. "I wish you'd been here earlier. I parked my car and when I got out, this big, old homeless guy was standing there. He asked me for money and when I said 'no,' he kicked the meter and started muttering to himself. I thought he might get violent. These guys are so unpredictable."

I agreed. I'd have felt the same way in her position.

But sometimes, albeit rarely, they're unpredictable in a good way.

Tonight, as Denver's first major snowstorm of the season blankets the city with an icy white coat, I thought about the man I've come to think of as MY homeless guy. I hope he's warm, comfortable, well-protected from the elements, and full to the brim of chicken-fried steak.