"...creeps in this petty pace from day to day...."
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Subject: "...creeps in this petty pace from day to day...."
Date: Thu, 16 Sep 1999 11:41:34 CDT
I was up before dawn, stashing the red bag there beneath the walnut trees. The overpass there at Boulder is blocked off at both ends--for whatever reason--and it's a quiet, safe place to watch the sunrise. Not terribly spectacular this one, but broken clouds with a bit of sky peeking through. I folded the red tablecloth, my little blanket, and sat on it. The concrete gets cold and can chill you to the very bone.
People came by now and then, walking briskly to work. The women would see me and from a prudent distance would cross over to the other side, trying to be casual about it. The husky men would walk straight at me, increasing the pace of their stride as they moved purposefully by. The smaller men would say, "Good morning." That is just how it was this morning.
I was wearing the black jeans and over them my maroon warmup pants. My sleeping outfit, one still suited to the chill of the morning. For it feels as if Autumn is pounding at the door. Not knocking timidly, but pounding away with great confidence.
But surely, I tell myself, there is *some* summer left? Some days of lazy warmth, evenings when the fireflies still flash semaphore?
I ate just the one morning meal yesterday, and not much of it, at that. Spaghetti, and I just couldn't put it down. For lunch I had the two peaches they gave me for attending a little class where I learned how to brush my teeth properly. A strange sensation, sitting there listening to the basics I learned 40 years or so ago. And a roomful of people to whom this all seemed like brand-new stuff.
So this morning I was sitting on the front steps when this black woman sat down beside me. She began spreading some peanut butter and jelly on white crackers. "You like some?" she asked. I did. Ate a couple and we got to talking. She, too, is homeless, and was telling me these convoluted directions as to how to get to this particular church tomorrow where they feed you "just like from a restaurant." Sounds like a hike, and I'm not all that fond of restaurant food, anyway, but we'll see.
So today was intended to be laundry day. I'd gone back up very early to retrieve my bag from
the abandoned car place. That whole thing is now blown, so I'll not be sleeping there anymore.
A carload of white trash women and trash blacks pulled up just behind me as I was drifting off
to sleep. Damn, what next? I laid low and listened to them poking about. Sounded like they
were stripping the building or something. Finally, I just dressed, got out, and went around the
corner to where they were drinking it up on the trashy porch. "Uh oh," the trashy woman said. "It's da man."
"Nahhhh," another one said. "Just another street person."
I asked if they'd mind if I slept in the car, and one of the larger blacks said, "Yeah, I do mind. Appreciate it if you don't do that anymore." And I was off, out of there, when he called out to me, "Um, how much money you got?"
Zero, I said.
How wonderful to always have value in accordance with the money in one's pocket. And they are squatting, just as I was, but this was a case of discretion being the better part of valor. There is a little vengeful thing in me which fantasized calling the cops and demanding these people be evicted from "my property." It was a fine fantasy there for a time, causing me to breathe quickly and tense my muscles, but in the end I laughed at myself. Just let it go. They're doing Life, hon. No possibility. Move on.
So long about ten o'clock I went back to where I'd stashed the bag beneath the walnut trees. GONE. Not that there was all that much to lose. A good pair of Lee blue jeans, a red polo shirt, my very last Diamondhead shirt I screened in Honolulu, dress slacks, dress shirt, red tie. Two pair of shorts, some socks. My not-so-good running shoes.
All that can be replaced, except for the D/H shirt. But it seems it's time to be moving very lightly, indeed. Holly Golightly, Dickens Golightly.
There was the little canvas shoulder bag I'd discarded; a red sweatshirt I'd hung up to dry. I took them both and walked away, saddened, saddened. It was obvious that my bag was *not* abandoned. It was simply another case of theft. So what do you do? You sigh, shrug your shoulders, and write this down as a lesson in Stashing the Bag. I really thought it was safe. It had been there days before, with no problem. But here, 3 hours alone, and it was gone.
Shrug. Get over it. Get on with it.
The day continues. Wasn't the quotation from Macbeth? "...creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time"? There is pettiness, yes, but the pettiness of someone doing life with no possibility of parole. A prison w/o bars, but a prison nonetheless.
When I look at what I have, such friends as I have, I have a wealth which cannot be plotted nor graphed.
I am content.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
