Wednesday is the 1st. The day before, I was on the way home from work. Just off the trail, I was climbing a hill across from the park with the Levitt center. This is the pedestrian entrance to the park, on the north side. On the corner of this street and the one with the homeless campers, a young woman stood. Presumably she waits for a significant other to join her before they are off to see a band perform outdoors. I make my way up to her and ask, "So, who's playing this evening?" She pauses. "Uh...two bands, actually." She laughs. This morning, I'm at work and headed over to the bank. The store needs some change. I notice a homeless guy standing in the lot, next to the bank. His hair is in a faux hawk. He wears a bright turquoise winter coat and green military camouflaged pants. As he turns to walk down the line of shops, I hear him say out loud, "There doesn't need to be Federal officers in this city..." The turquoise homeless militia has spoken. After work, I'm on the trail home. Across from a golf course, not long after I turn onto this connecting trail home, is a log bench off into the tall grass. Spots such as this are a favorite for the homeless. This late afternoon, there's a guy who appears homeless and sounds drunk. Though he's in a clean T-shirt which hangs off his frame, and a bright pink bike helmet sits on the bench. He has a bike which looks exactly like one I got years ago, for $99 from Walmart. It's customized with a bar end mirror. It all looks good. Then he begins yelling something at me I can't make out. It sounds as if he's yelling, "Private bike," as he gestures toward it.
This week, or last week, I began to notice that my brake cables are loose on the bike I ride to and fro work. This is a busy weekend. Two outdoor festivals in separate popular neighborhoods, the first in a couple of years and a couple of the last of the season. And an old girlfriend has reconnected with me and wants to go out on Sunday. I decide to head back to the bike shop, in the sporting goods supercenter, after work today. I ride to one train, upon which enters a homeless guy on his phone. No mask, as the transit system continues to require. (Hey, he's on the phone. You guys and your masks and homes and whatnot...) He tells someone on the other end that he can't get vaccinated for COVID. (So I hope we all have our masks.) I can't remember how he put it, he claims to have a defect in his blood. If he gets the vaccine, "It'll kill me," he states in a thick Texas accent. "I have a medical card in my pocket that says so." I change trains, and ride next two a couple of young women in a seat. One is telling the other how the bible doesn't have room to explain all of science. I get out at a stop where I can take the downtown trail all the way to the bike shop, instead of crawl up the steps, and over the train tracks. I stop into a deathburger I used to frequent, some six years ago when I caught the first train to work here, early in the morning. It's on a street with a shopette across from a downtown college campus. the shopette is mostly boarded up and painted black. I remember when it was occupied with businesses.
I took a vacation day on Friday. It's how I use my vacation this year, paying for the days I have appointments which I am unable to make, before work. I would hardly call it a "day off." Today's appointment was downtown, shortly before noon, with a dentist for a consultation. I learned much about rot canals. I've been learning more than I ever knew about my health since I've been on Medicaid. One of my teeth has had two root canals. I already knew it has again become infected. First, this dentist asked me about my wisdom teeth not having yet been taken out. I told him about my previous long-time dentist having sent me to an oral surgeon for a consultation, and he suggested I leave them in. This dentist this morning tells me something completely unexpected. He tells me...the same thing. After two previous root canals on the same tooth, another won't alleviate any infection. Upon examination, the infection is draining. I may never need the tooth removed the rest of my days. This is the kind of advice every patient dreams of. He describes this tooth being removed as cutting off a hand to remove a splinter from a finger. Okay dude, I'm already sold. I'm outside unlocking my bike when I hear someone yelling toward the street. Someone insane in the membrane is pointing and shouting at traffic. He looks homeless. My favorite thing about him is his small, bright yellow backpack. The rest of my day is completely taken up with tasks both scheduled and unexpected. I ride into downtown for lunch at a place I ate at all the time, when I worked downtown a few years ago. It isn't open on Sundays. When I was furloughed Spring of 2020, I would ride here to hang out with the manager, who kept me up to date on the COVID mandates, because I had cancelled my cable and never heard any news. Then I decide, as I have the rest of the day, to ride all the way back to the sporting goods supercenter, to grab more oil for my bike chain. Then it's off to get some yogurt. It's hot out here today. I drop by a deathburger to grab a soda. I sit inside drinking it, next to a couple of employees on break. The manager comes out to briefly discuss some paperwork with them. A young homeless guy in a booth on the other side of this end of the lobby asks him if he can help him out to purchase some ice cream. The manager says he will se what he can do. He disappears and the homeless guy then asks one of the employees if they can help him out with some cash. She replies that she has no cash. He asks me. I don't carry cash either. An assistant manager comes out to chat with the employees. "Ma'am, can you help me out with some money?" She has no cash. A third employee comes out to chat with the two at the table. Again, Ma'am..." A short thin woman was outside when I pulled up. She comes in to try and use a gift card to purchase food. She is informed that the card has no funds. She says she's going to call the number on the gift card and runs out.
I'm in and out of the supermarket across the street, with an item in hand. I'm on the way home, just a handful of streets from there. I come off a sidewalk and suddenly hear hissing from my back tire. Today, I'm on the bike I ride on the weekends. I have a flat tube on this bike now. I use my portable pump to inflate it, which lasts until I get home. It's 3:30 PM. I decide, instead of going grocery shopping, I will take the transit system back to the sporting goods supercenter to have it fixed. A quick call there confirms they have a tube which shall fit. I'm on the bus with by back rim, on the train, and at the bike shop. A little guy notices the tire also has damage, and wants to consult with a taller guy. When he shows it to him, the taller guy begins to tease him about needing his advice. The little guy grabs a tube and switches it out with my dead one. As he's inflating it, he blows it up. No other customer there knows what happed. The taller guy doesn't give any more grief. But the little guy asks him to grab another tube from the bin where he got the one he blew up. The taller guy looks but doesn't see it, and goes into storage to get one. I pick another out from the bin and hand it to the little guy. When the taller guy comes back, he sees it an doesn't say anything, he simply puts the other back. New tube and tire on, the little guy charges me first for the tube. As I'm putting away my wallet, he then remembers he didn't charge me for the tire. I hike back toward the train station. On a bridge over the Colorado River, I notice a city bicycle, the kind you can pay for at a stand and ride. It's in the river. I look for a way to go down and pull it out, but I don't see any path down there from the bridge. I climb back up the steps over the train and grab a shuttle down the pedestrian mall. Preparations are underway for the long weekend's annual outdoor festival. I transfer to a bus to the train station and transfer there to a bus home. What a day. Off? Not!
After I get home after work on Saturday, I head down to a deathburger before a late grocery shopping trip. I'm eating next to a window when I see a familiar street guy. He has a couple of pals who are keeping him from walking straight out into traffic. He tries, and they turn him around. He tries again and they turn him around again. Sunday. Lunch with the sister. Crosstown and up to a train. Out and over to the yogurt place downtown. Then it's off to another train south toward the waterpark. I do one last swim of this season. Tomorrow is Labor Day, and the last day it's open. Then I'm back to the train. I don't do a workout today, because the rec center is closed for scheduled cleaning. I'm back home in time for a special event. Almost two years ago I last spoke to, and a good two and a half years ago I last saw, a woman I was dating. She only recently has begun to make use of Facebook, sent me a friend request, wants to get together. Sunday we have a wonderful reunion, she likes IHOP. She tells me a story about being a grandma, rescuing her daughter from emotional crises, confronting armed robbers, as well as dealing head on with health and financial problems. The following day, Labor Day, we go to another favorite place of hers. The Museum of Nature and Science is where she used to take her kids when they were small. We have a wonderful few hours and I hear more about her family. We say farewell for now. I spend the late afternoon at a traditional downtown outdoor festival. This year, it's considerably scaled down, spread out along the pedestrian mall. I'm surprised to find an old deathburger on the mall open for business. It was closed for remodeling, and I was suspicious that it would ever reopen. It used to be a hub for what appeared to be every homeless person in the city. Indeed, it has been remodeled, and significantly stripped down. ...and there's not a homeless person to be found here. What a weekend. Goodbye summer, hello newfound relationship.
This week, I'm close to work, entering a horse trail. A middle-aged cyclist passed me as we climb up onto the trail. He appears to be on an electric bike, and refers to my old fashioned bike without a motor, "Looks like a lot of work." Should be, for some unknown reason, ask any doctor I've had...that would be the idea. And I am indeed on my way to...work. Tuesday. I'm on the way home from work. School is back in session and there are kids hanging out on the trail, where it begins across the creek from a high school. This last trail to work, and first one from work, runs through a series of connected parks and open space. Across a bridge in one of these parks are a handful of high school kids, down the hill from a big condo complex. I sneak around one white kid in a black hoodie, the hood over his head. No, it ain't anywhere near cold outside. After I get around him, he says, "Oh, hey, on my left." A good hour later, I'm coming through the intersection on my corner. This time, I'm behind a homeless guy on crutches. His preferred panhandling spot is outside the entrance of the new Vietnamese grocery. I have to stop after I get up on the sidewalk, in front of some landscaping stones, so he can get to the wall of the grocery. I have a photo I took of him on one of the blog posts from this summer. I dismount and move my bike a couple of feet. I hear him speak for the first time when he says to me, "I wouldn't ride over those rocks either." On Wednesday, I'm approaching the turn from one trail to the next on the way to work. A guy who appears perhaps older than myself asks me if I am carrying an oxygen canister on my back. I'm using my late mom's canister carrier for my metal water bottle, which perhaps indeed appears as an oxygen canister. He says his wife began using oxygen and did I have any tips? I recommend a dial-a-nurse. On the way home, I'm along the same stretch of trail when a young guy passes me. He spot the bag I carry on my back rack and tells me I look like I'm "ready to do some serious bike camping."
Wednesday. I'm coming to work past the homeless tent next to the damaged guard rail. There are some trash bags which appear to be out for pickup. Sticking out of one bag is what appears to be the head of a chicken costume. I pull out a camera with a zoom as a homeless guy comes slowly down the trail. He waits at a crosswalk between the trail and another trailhead. Cars wait as he makes his way over to the tent. I snap a shot before I'm on my way. I will get a better shot the following morning. After work, I stop by a sandwich place for a salad. The guy behind the counter is completing online orders. He makes my salad, and when I finish I'm refilling my beverage. I tell him thanks. He tells me I look exhausted, and to go home and get some sleep. Saturday after work. The last place to swim, the waterpark, is closed. It's an otherwise beautiful afternoon for a swim, but the afternoon will no go wasted. After work, I hit the first used library book sale in two years. It's just down the boulevard. I ride home, change bikes, and do another evening grocery shopping trip. I ride home in warm temps and under lightning. I accomplish everything I wanted to today, except a trip to the gym, which was sacrificed for the library used book sale. Tomorrow will be busy, but not so much now that I'm done swimming for the season. Sunday, first comes lunch with the sister, who continues to inch toward a new knee through a process of blood tests and physical therapy. Then I'm headed east toward downtown. I love my new back bike tire. I'm on the last stretch into downtown, toward yogurt, then across town to drop off film and pick up more, then south to the gym before I'm home for an overdue haircut. I'm on the sidewalk of a busy thoroughfare, close to the street edge to make way for any pedestrians. In the blink of an eye, right in front of me is a broken beer bottle standing end up. My front wheel misses it before I feel the back one, with the brand new tire and brand new tube, run straight over it. BANG! My brand new rear tube explodes with a sound which reverberates off the crumbling buildings along this stretch of street. Okay.
Seven blocks north is a train station. One stop from there, I can transfer to another train straight to the end of a line, and a short walk to the sporting goods super center. Never mind that I don't need this. I couldn't work out last weekend because the rec center was closed for scheduled annual cleaning. I head for the sidewalk along a main artery around the city, which will take me straight to the train. To get there, I cut through a park. A homeless guy at a concrete bench and table asks me if today is Saturday. Close enough. If my wheel blew up, at least you can count on it being the weekend. A couple of blocks later, I'm approaching the exit of a supermarket next to an apartment tower. A driver stops and asks me a question through the open passenger side window. In a heavy Arabic accent, he says, "Hey friend, do you live here?" With his phone, he gestures toward the apartment tower. I do not. I'm just a man with the same flat tire in two weeks. And I don't even drink. I spot the performing arts center, with a train station closer than the next. I sneak onto what I think is a walkway toward the platform. It turns out to me a service walkway, restricted to only authorized personnel. I run along until I reach the platform. With a bike which has a blown up tube. Did I mention that I don't need this? Then again, if this wasn't my life, I would have one. If I didn't have ants in my house, I wouldn't have any friends at all. My planned route on the transit system to the bike shop is a success. At the bike shop inside the super center, an angel from some hipster version of a low-carbon hereafter takes my beleaguered no-carbon vehicle in hand. With her very short hair, tank top, and fearless greasy fingers, I don't know if she's lesbian. If so, God bless lesbians. She has a tube with sealant, she finds me a tire. She shows me an inch-long gash in the previous tire, and the tube is a bloody mess of green slime. She shows me a tiny bite taken out of the new rear rim's edge. What the hell have I been doing to this poor bike? She tells me it may eventually be a problem for the vulnerable tube next to it. I ask, and she has someone shave the metal to a smoother form. In the meantime, it's time to reapply sunscreen and call the rec center. For reasons unknown, my phone battery is almost empty. I never keep it on. After a struggle with information, I reach the rec center. They're open today until 5. The tech rings me up and wishes me what she refers to as no more "Hemingwayesque hikes to the bike shop." Last winter, standing in snow, I pulled a tangled bungee cord from around my cassette. That I described as out of a Jack London story. This same shop identified a broken spoke on that bike, which spent four months here waiting for parts before I took it home complete again. I may not have friends, but surely such is the way of any character written by the best American authors. I think Robert Crumb still comes closest as my life's writer. And perhaps the best friends I have are right here at this bike shop.
I rejoin my itinerary and follow the bike trail out of downtown, and into my old neighborhood. I elect to stop at the mall down the street from where I used to live, to use the men's room and as an alternative source for yogurt. This yogurt shop is run by a pair of young Turkish women. They remind me that Greece stole both yogurt and the gyro from Turkey. Turkey I know is a NATO country. I'm not sure about Greece. It's already going on # PM. I eat and run. It's a short ride to the camera shop. I drop and pick up film. It's now ten after 3. I decide to make a break for the closest train. I get there in 23 minutes. The next train north will be in ten minutes, which will take me three stops to where I can transfer to another line. Three short stops from there, the rec center is right across the street from that station. After it scoops me up, it gets me to the transfer station before 4. My other train arrives immediately, which otherwise never happens, and I'm at the rec center shortly after 4. I'm out before 5. I take a liter canteen of diet iced tea with me and have finished it after the day's tribulations. I get back on the train for a trip to an old diner along the way home, for dinner. My waitress tells me she's worked there for 40 years, since she was 15. She says she lied about her age. I make it back home in time for my haircut. The slim and gorgeous Vietnamese lady in her 50s quickly trims my hair, as she tries to get a couple more cuts in before she closes for the evening. I catch a brief glimpse into her day as she rings me up. She looks at her store phone. "Eight missed calls. Damnit."
...members must believe in God and have a strong sense of patriotism. Potential members must also be American citizens, "of good moral character," and older than 21. ...as of 1979...membership...could not be affiliated with the Communist Party. "It has more to do with the oath we take to uphold the Constitution. It's like going into court... ...of me...being an attorney...I might be a good Exalted Ruler...'Why don't you run with it, and we can set up a group of leaders that we're trying to bring in?' We have...member of the LGBTQ community... We're teaching youth what it means to be part of community. We really became a communal hub for northwest Denver." ...all...clubs must have...their Americanism committee [and] hold essay contests to help instill a sense of patriotism in today's youth. [Clubs also] teach kids...about the dangers of drug use 9inclusing legalized cannabis)...improving the quality of life for the entire community. ...the group decided to build a golf simulation... "Here in urban Denver, and especially north Denver, our kids don't have that same advantage." Members have also...renovated the lodge's interior to make it more appealing to a younger demographic. - Westword, 9/16-22/2021
...seeing a white couple walking their dog and pushing their baby in a stroller. "I was like, 'Oh, my God,'" she remembers. "I kept joking with people...I knew if a Starbucks showed up, we'd made it. Oh, my God, Starbucks shows up. The hookers and shootings all moved away." Brewpubs, upscale tattoo parlors and ice cream shops replaced them. "...a sixty-year run with people who cared...kept rents low and kept the place up." - Westword, 9/9-15/2021
We do not wish to project a calm secure future. We are disruption. We are hot. We are cannibals, cowboys, Indians, witches... ...that crawl out of the cracks in America's nightmare. ...straight from the white middle-class suburban life. Our very existence is disruptive. - Hoffman
Tuesday. Another eight days, and it shall be Autumn. I'm on the way home from work. Only one trash bag has been picked up from the homeless camp. It's the bag with the chicken suit. Other trash bags are still lined up next to the street. The following morning, I'm turning the corner onto the street with the homeless campers. This morning, the block from here to the next street is packed with campers, tents, and a single Porta Potty. I'm behind a small minivan which has crossed the intersection straight through. On the passenger side door is printed, "Fire Team Security." It stops next to the middle of the line of dwellings before moving up to and turning on the next street. Not long after, I'm on the trail and rolling past the homeless camp formerly with a chicken suit half in a trash bag. A small oncoming Toyota truck appears on the road next to the trail. As it approaches the camp, the female driver leans on the horn until it's past the camp. (?) After work, I'm on the way home. I'm coming up the hill from the street with the campers. At the crest of this hill is what appears perhaps to be a homeless pickup truck. A couple of guys in sleeveless shirts are standing and talking to the driver before he heads back down the hill. I'm switching back, taking the hill at a less steep angle by riding back and forth across the street. The pair see me, and one lets me know, "It's shorter if you ride straight." I'm back on the camper block Thursday morning. A private contractor has arrived to clean the Porta Potty. Late in the afternoon, on the way home from work I am again climbing the hill off the camper block. Down this street lives, on one side, a guy perhaps in his thirties. He lives in a house with several rooms lined up in a straight row, and a balcony on a second story. There is a collection of odds and ends in the enclosed yard and driveway, including a kick boxing dummy in a hoodie and a buddha statue. A Saint Bernard usually lounges on the front porch and barks. A dark-haired lady lives across the street and comes over to see him. Today, he's in the middle of the street. He swings a lacrosse stick at a lacrosse net, also in the middle of the street. The lady, and her two kids watch the guy.
Saturday. The mornings when I ride to work early; Friday I worked open to close and Saturdays I'm out the door early, it's been just chilly enough to get some of the winter gear on. On the way home after work it's back into the 80s F, and I put it that gear into an extra pack. I leave work without realizing I left it behind. I stop at a kind of deli restaurant along the way, not that far from work. I then run into a supermarket across the street, before I notice my pack ain't with me. I'm sure it's at work, but I check the deli place just in case. There, I ask if they found an abandoned bag. The cashier misunderstands, and hands me a paper bag. Again, I ask if an abandoned bag was found. I'm told to check the men's room. I reply that I didn't use their men's room. "Someone may have taken it in there." (?) The following Monday, I'm back out on the trail to work. I'm coming around the golf course just up from the favorite surf spot on the river. Another online skater is coming down the trail. He looks familiar. A short distance later and I'm onto the connecting trail. There a parade of cyclists who will pass me from behind, as they announce, "On your left." Otherwise, I seldom hear anyone speak to me on my bike. This morning, a heavy thirtysomething guy approaches. He's in a red T-shirt with "USA" on the front. Running down the trail, he announces to me, "Good morning!" in a loud voice. At a bend in the trail, I stop to write this down when I notice he's turned around at the intersection, and is coming back my way. He passes another runner and exclaims, "Good morning! Have a good run." I get going ahead of him and stop again at the dog park, where again I write this down. I watch him as he comes walking along, exits the trail through the parking lot, and runs off toward the street.
On Tuesday after work, I'm climbing the steep hill on a street off the one with the homeless campers and tents. These are the days of the long shadows, and the sun is setting earlier. It's about to disappear. Tomorrow is the equinox. I spy someone down by a camper on the end of the row. He's in a kind of uniform, or work clothes. He's speaking with someone through the window of the dwelling. In each hand, he picks up a propane tank from the front of the camper, and carries it toward the opposite end of the street. As I'm zig-zagging up the hill, upon which one guy told me to ride straight, I see the uniformed guy again. He's slowly walking through the big field next to the street, toward a couple on a path. Of the pair, the guy has a bike, and even from a distance appears homeless. The uniformed guy approaches him and begins conversing. The following day is the first day of Autumn. It's also another annual Bike To Work Day, which for some reason always appears to fall on a Wednesday. The only sign of it is on my way to work. I reach the end of a golf course, next to the spots along the river where the surfers congregated this summer. At the corner of the course, on the chain link fence, is a small banner announcing the two wheeled day. It's in front of a swath of gravel just off the trail, perfect for a table with beverages. As of mid-morning, there ain't nothin' but the banner. Did I miss it, or has it yet begun? This surely is a question to be answered only by those riders who start work somehow even later than myself. Just beyond is the parking lot for the golf course. The shadows are creeping steadily across the trail, later on along my way home from work. I arrive at this spot just in time to see the last three tents being taken down. Someone is taking down the banner I spotted this morning. Presumably, everyone has made it home on their bikes already. I pause to listen to a skinny guy on acoustic guitar. His mic had some reverb coming through a weak speaker. "We tread lightly. We tread lightly..." he sings. I'm also in time for the end of his song. He receives a smattering of applause. I'm outta here.
Thursday. Right where I change trails on the way home, there's a lawn sign next to the trail. It announces a run along this trail, in about a week and a half. It's something I haven't heard of. "The justice run." Perhaps a half hour later, I'm climbing the same hill as I did Tuesday after work. The line of campers down below is currently in a waxing phase. The guy in work clothes is leaning on the roof of a small car parked in a space between the campers. He's talking to a female, as if they are discussing the dwelling along the curb They are closer to one end of the street. Toward the other end of the line of RVs and tents is a skinny guy, sweeping the sidewalk, and another guy zipping up his pants. Sunday is the beginning of the last week of the month. Yesterday, on the way home, I had yet another flat. This one is on the bike I rice to and fro work. I tried to inflate it twice with my portable air pump, all to no avail. Sunday I elect to take the transit system with the bike to the sporting goods supercenter, which opens at 9. Even on Sundays. I catch the bus which crawls up the street. We're headed straight for the football stadium across the highway from the train station. Traffic is plentiful, the lanes are few. The train has fans in jerseys of the city's team. Out at the station downtown, I enter the station for a couple of schedules. I plan on meeting the sister for our usual early lunch, after I get the bike tube replaced. Then I'm headed for the first metaphysical festival minus Covid precautions since 2019. I plan of taking a commuter train to a bus, and could use the schedules for both. Inside the station, there are no hard copies of any schedules. It's straight to the supercenter bike shop, where the same tech, who replaced the flat on my other bike, hooks me up. They have a thorn-resistant tube which fits my rear rim, with sealant. I ask her how the tire looks. Time for a new tire. I wonder how Hemmingway paid for his mode of transport? From there, I take a trail to retrace a route, of the sister's home to the downtown yogurt place, only in reverse. Last Sunday, her landlord called to tell her they were putting her dwelling on the market in six months. Today, she called a friend. The sister and the friend have a mutual friend, an old friend, in hospice. The friend on the phone has taken possession of the old friend's estate through power of attorney. The estate includes a home. The sister offered to move in as a tenant. The friend on the phone is thrilled, but needs to confirm with her husband. And rent needs to be decided. But it's a quick development to follow last week's decision.
After lunch, I'm off for home where i deposit the bike I ride during the week, and pick up the weekend bike. I'm back on the bus I took this morning onto at the same train, and out at the same spot downtown. Only I ride just a block or two, from the light rail to the commuter train. It's a short ride to north Denver, and I out where I catch a bus headed to the festival. Not far north of downtown, you find yourself in newly developed and barren land of modern homes. The pastel colors clash with the run down fences and yards full of weeds. The bus winds its way through residential streets with houses and modern low-income apartments and office parks, before it turns a corner to my stop. I exit and cross the busy thoroughfare to a sandwich place. I order a salad and they have no forks. There is a second employee, who appears to have a teenaged son who walks in and out and around the place. When I'm finished, I'm unlocking my bike next to a couple of guys conversing. One is telling the other he's trying to quit drinking but wants to get some "weed." Earlier he was standing outside the entrance with his shirt over his head. Both of them appear to know the manager. I wonder if they have any forks. Across the street is the festival. It's nice to see it back in a big room. I meander and absorb the energy before I'm back on the bus to the commuter train. I exit downtown again and stop into the old deathburger homeless central. The sparse complete redesign is strikingly airy. Bags are not allowed into the restrooms. This is simply not a vibe the homeless can be in, and not a one is to be seen. No one left but the memories. There is one person who stands out here in this ultra clean modern design. He's a big and young security guard. The first thing you notice is he's wearing body armor. He controls the locks to the restrooms. I don't know if the same owner runs this place, but it's a new day 'round these wild parts, and there's a new sheriff in town. The late afternoon shadows of office buildings dominate the downtown streets now, as the usual souls come a wandering. Some are fully clothed, some are not. On a corner here at this end of the pedestrian mall, a dirt biker is pulling wheelies back and forth. I finish eating and ride to a train station at a downtown college campus. I hop a train to a bus home. What a day.
Monday. I don't know it yet, but I will begin working from the time I get to work until a half hour past close. Right now, I'm simply on the way to work, approaching the street with the block of homeless campers. They extend around the corner, toward me before I reach the block. Out in this corner of the field are a couple who appear to be working perhaps for the city. Are they cleaning up trash? In front of them, siting in the street next to a camper, is a middle-aged woman. She's skinny, has no teeth, but sports a yellow dyed mohawk. I think she's working on a bicycle. Coming down the hill toward the corner, already out in the middle of the lane to avoid the big campers, I have to move all the way to the center line to avoid her as well. A second homeless person is on the other side of the camper. I hear who I believe is one of them yelling to someone else. I turn the corner. Another middle-aged woman, this one with a hairdo from the 1960's, eyes me from a lawn chair on the sidewalk. She's in socks but no shoes. A grizzled guy behind a camper spots me. A chubby woman in her 30's, in a black summer dress and tennis shoes and with her blonde hair curled, appears to be slowly digging through a bin of scrap metal. At the block's end is parked a pickup truck, belonging perhaps to the couple in the field. On the door, it reads, "Habitat Management." On Wednesday, I'm coming home from work. It rained before I left work and the temps are in the 50s F. Autumn arrived exactly a week ago and the temps have now caught up with the calendar. I'm just off the trail and crossing some railroad tracks. A stolen shopping cart is sitting front end down smack in the middle of the track. I stop and pull it off the tracks.
Thursday. I'm on the way to another doctor appointment, a urologist, before work. We will discuss my elevated PSA levels, and the bottom line which is simply that I am aging. Along the way there, I am coming down a hill along a route toward downtown from across my own neighborhood.. On a sidewalk, as if they are waiting for a school bus or a ride, is a one adult and perhaps three children of varying ages. When they see me from a distance, the two youngest run into the middle of the street. It's raining lightly, and they are wearing raincoats over their heads. They take up position across the street as if they are part of a football team defense. They both begin saying, "Uh1 Uh1 Uh!..." AS I approach, they run back to the sidewalk, where an older child says to me, "Hello goodbye." There goes the month, with an uh uh uh and a hello goodbye.
