The man

This man in Rock's bedroom, with a nearly textbook homeless look, unkempt, unshaven, with wild hair and filthy, tattered clothing, held a wastepaper basket full of food refuge and old snuff residue, and he began to dump it on Rock's bed.
Rock didn't know who he was or why he was making this mess, but the man was clearly angered. It seemed obvious that he had come to pick a fight.
"What are you doing, man?" Rock said.
The man shoved Rock's chest. Rock reached up to separate his arms and push him away. The man then reached under the bed and grabbed a crystal dinner glass full of some sort of paper product, stained brown and powdery years earlier by tobacco spit.
"I've heard about you," the man said. "I've heard what your neighbors say."
"What the fuck are you talking about, man? You need to get the fuck out of my house."