I saw Dwayne for the first time in a Wal-Mart parking lot when he walked to the door of his RV and patiently let his dog, Buddy, jump in.

That ritual is oh so familiar.

Ours were the only RVs in a giant mall complex in Steubenville, Ohio.

His was pulling a trailer and looked more beat up than Rocinante. Buddy has about two dozen dog years on Armani.

"Uh oh, that's us in a few years," I jokingly told her.

Like truckers, RVers have an unspoken community.

Dwayne saw me and came over to say hi.

We traded stories of life on the road. He no longer has a water holding tank after blowing a tire. A bad generator fried his house battery. 

I joked about the constant water spills I deal with carrying around jugs and bottles for my dog and I, and how Armani jumped on my toilet seat and broke it.

Dwayne is in his fifth year living on the road. This is his third RV.

He sometimes "waves cardboard," or holds a sign asking for money, to get by.

I didn't ask his age or how many times he's been married or if he has a criminal record.

I asked for tips and he gave me some decent ones: get a gym membership so you can work out and shower; bring other stores' advertisements to Wal-Mart for the lowest price; stay legal.

Dwayne used to oversee and train a sales force. He had a business five years and a lifetime ago.

When I met him he was headed to Las Vegas to pursue an opportunity that may lead him back into the fixed world.

Maybe he'll wake up in the same place every morning while my foot is on the gas pedal.

Our brief interaction made me wonder what separates us on the proverbial road. Am I a journeyer? Is he a wanderer? Is that a distinction worth making?