I was was hungry. The brain in overdrive from meetings, emails, calls, emails, side-bar chats, calls, thoughts of a year ago, proposals, deadlines, weather, the World. I was hungry.
I grabbed my jacket as I saw the wind pick up outside, the skyline of inverted icicles reflecting on the front end with the setting sun, and the four horsemen of the Apocalypse coming over top the mountains as a midnight blue storm rolled in.
Outside, a brisk pace to grab some pizza up the street. I quickly noticed that the staff were right: I do walk quickly. I also noticed that leather jackets are useless unless you're in a Danier commercial or you go by the name of Steve McQueen. I noticed that Vancouver has a lot of Native art, and much of it is not good at all. I noticed that many people don't smile, and too many wear iPods (which I thought would increase the smile factor, but maybe they're all listening to Fiona Apple or podcasts from Iraq).
I then attempted not to notice the man on the corner. Leaning on a toothpick of a crutch, and almost spilling into the intersection, he looked like he had spent his whole life sleeping in the Hudson River. A gaunt hand outstretched, shaking from God knows what. A never-been-shaved face of anguish, pleading eyes, and unwashed clothes. No one tried to notice him. They liked their iPods and their bus passes, and their side bags. They didn't like noticing him.
The light changed and I briefly wondered if he's going to cross the street with the throng, at his users' pace, and whether the crutch would hold. Then I looked up at the sound of a new Ferrari. I grinded my teeth at its sleek beauty, the reality that I would never own one, and how surreal the likely dealer was behind its wheel. Funny how you can only drive these super machines in first gear in Vancouver. We should have more speed bumps.
He didn't look off the road while he yapped on his Razor, one hand on the wheel, his ball cap pulled down low. I wondered, as I got to the corner, if he still dealt with being called a fag when he was in school, how much he liked (or sells) blow, if his arm candy knew how to read, if he could even get it up, and hence, the mercury on wheels that cruised by.
He made it through the yellow, and for some reason I glanced back at the snail. And I knew he wasn't going to make it. He was hobbled; maybe he had polio. But his limp only took him a quarter of the way across the street before the green light hit, and the commuters were already at the intersection. I looked around and still, nobody wanted to notice the homeless gnome and the toothpick crutch. So I walked into the street, my arm outstretched to a diplomatic-looking Benz, while the Volvo to its left made a stop in the middle of the road. I approached Mr. Crutch and asked him if he needed any help. He mumbled something in Meth and I took his arm. It looked like he was wearing a 1970's Russell sweatshirt, with nothing underneath. It felt like it was just above zero.
We shuffled along the crosswalk and in that moment, it was just Crutch and me. The iPods, the side bags, the bus passes, I didn't see. I heard an Acura's horn honk but it only went once as the driver realized the reason for the delay. He thought about karma at that moment, and spilled his latté. Or maybe his kid was hit by a car coming home from school. He felt it.
By the time we reached the corner, the traffic had started again, the throng was already moving at the next light, and I looked at Crutch and asked his bloodshot eyes where he was headed next. He asked me for change, and said I probably didn't have any for him. I told him I had some, that I wouldn't let him down, but asked again where he was going next. The Meth mumbled "Howe," which was across the bridge and on the other side of town. I wondered how long it would take for him to walk, and if he'd even make it before the weekend. He looked at me again, though, snot in his beard, and growled,
"I'm going to Hell."
I paused for a second, but that's all. A second. A suggestion so profound, it took only a moment to register and it didn't affect me. He said this clearly while I was handing him a toonie, and I noticed that he would have nice hands, if they had been clean of dumpster and Earth. His nails were all there, at least.
The Meth said thanks and I sensed he was heading downhill. No one else did - they were back to noticing the lights, or maybe me: the traffic stopper, the good Samaritan, the "why would he bother to help a bum cross the street" guy, the guy in a black jacket, the guy.
My light changed and I was moving again towards the pizza place. And then I thought about Hell, and whether or not Crutch was headed in that direction, going downhill or not. I looked up at the sky, and noticed so many windows. No matter where he was headed, or all those like him, I suddenly realized their hearts beat, too.
Give.
... and put your feet up while Fatty McGee buys himself an airplane, don't know when he'll be back again...
