My twin teeth extraction was the big event which I was waiting to put behind me. The big difference is what feels as an enormous space in my teeth. The recovery I wouldn't describe even as pain as much as a kind of discomfort. Beginning the second day I have only taken pain medication overnight. Saturday, I'm out the door and on the way to work. During the week, the lever shifting my high gears has broken. I've been taking the whisper bike. I rarely shift into the highest gear, but today I'm pushing it to make good time. First, it doesn't want to come out of that gear. Then, it won't go into it. No matter. I turn a corner onto a short street, before the last two corners toward the trail. There's a shady spot along the curb in front of a small warehouse. It's a sometimes-popular spot for homeless campers. This morning, it's the spot chosen by the driver of the grimy grey camper with hitched pop-up tent converted to trailer. Then I'm out on the trail, past the first golf course and headed for the first bridge over the river. It's a chilly spring morning, in the 30s F. I start out in my gloves but have to switch to my mittens. I can see my breath in the first rays of sunlight. Before this however, I can hear a scooter engine coming down a trail along this side of the river. I don't even have to wait to see it before I know the rider is homeless. The headlight appears. As it passes, I see a young guy with a dirty face inside a hoodie. His lady is on the back. Neither have helmets. I know he must be cold. I'm cold in my balaclava and neck gator. He's towing a small flatbed trailer. I hear his engine for a while as it makes its way up the trail I just came down.
Now. Let's discuss Medicaid. Two years ago I was furloughed. I applied for and, six months later was notified I was approved for, Medicaid. Long before I was notified I was approved, I had contacted Medicaid to let them know I was back to work. I was under the impression that I had snuck onto the rolls soon enough to get approved, but too soon to be declined before some kind of mysterious order preventing Medicaid from declining anyone until further notice. This week I saw a story online, which claims that Medicaid was actually extended to those not necessarily furloughed, as well as preventing patients from being declined. Two years later I find this out. Okay. I recently discovered that my current benefits, which I was originally told would expire at the end of February, have not yet expired. Last Tuesday, I was told that I had "enough money left" for the extraction. The story went on to claim that these benefits are indeed due to expire on the 14th of this month, but that they were expected to be extended again. Okay. I may have had a chance to see one effect the Medicaid extension has had on my current in network doctor and oral surgery office. On a previous visit, to their urologist, he told me that this office accepts Medicaid patients who are not accepted in a town a couple hours' drive south of here. So I already know that this office is seeing a flood of those patients. During my own surgery, this would explain why the staff is already frazzled at 9 AM, and why a grey-haired dentist stuck his head in the room to thank me for arriving early. It would also explain my surgeon crossing his arms after injecting me with numbing juice, as I could almost feel him wishing it to work as fast as possible. So that he could get me out and get onto the next patient. He mentioned to one of his assistants that another "sedation" patient had just arrived. This a patient who requests to be put under sedation as opposed to simply being numbed. He didn't sound enthusiastic about it.
Sunday. I take one of my last bike rides to the sister's place before she moves next week. After lunch with her I ride to the sporting goods supercenter. I'm on the bike I take to work. The bike tech swaps out a shifter cable while I wait. I love these guys. I ride into downtown for an early dinner. It's already after 3 PM. I'm at a quiet bar and grill which I like, off the pedestrian mall. Past my window wanders a couple of loser street guys. One carries an enormous red plastic trash-sized bag. Printed on the bag is "Biohazard." I watch them hang out on the sidewalk.
...to be Hunter S. Tompson. ...I went to college and started learning...the problematic aspects of the gonzo narrative... ...a...personal style of a countercultural reporter...is now available...to anyone...to shed light on the truth of our shared humanity... To me, gonzo is...to understand...what society is experiencing... The 2015 Guardian article "Why gonzo journalism is crucial to our understanding of cities and their tribes"... Author Bradley L. Garrett...says gonzo journalism helps people to understand the nuances of deep-rooted conflicts and cultures...in the coverage of police work, protests, and social issues. ..."rooted in participation, spiked with empathy, and resists being reduced to spectator fodder." - OUT FRONT Magazine, 4/2022
...because of...energy and...brilliance. And ultimately, the reality that winning is everything. ...it's important for the rest...to really learn that history. ...about being new-age and being creative and having a lot of fun. ...making winning your lifestyle. Winning has go to be your lifestyle. It's got to be everything you do. ...we landed [in Denver] around one o' clock in the morning and...got up at 8 a.m. and did a workout, and then we went to the children's hospital here. We got to read them our book...that ended up being a "New York Times" best seller. ...an amazing journey for us... - Mile High Sports, 4/2022
...the goal isn't to heal. [It's to] probe the existence of human existence, metaphysics... ...freedom, self-worth and vital existence... ..."a lot more collaborations...during metal shows...we seek to bring...back. The Death Metal Consortium"... ...a confederation of Denver musicians... ..."is our attempt [at] a new...death metal scene with the...aid of...a more active and well-rounded variant of Satanism, the Satanic Temple." To that end. [has been] organized an event [named for] the Satanic deity Baphomer. [Organizers] promise dancing witches and a circle pit that will ideally transcend mere moshing... The concert [is a] belated celebration of...a springtime ritual of protection and purification... The synergy between Satanism and heavy metal..."is a shared value for freedom and self-expression...formed in the days of the Satanic panic in the '80s."...when Satanists became the bogymen of America's self-appointed moral watchdogs. [The Consortium leader] sees Satanism in a more healthy and cathartic light... - Westword, 4/28-5/4/2022
"I've learned that many kind families who love their kids are just comfortable with different behaviors in their homes than I am. I can't convince another parent otherwise or control their habits, even if I am uncomfortable." "Tell them you'd like your child to be in an environment where...values and behaviors...similar...to...your own...are practiced. If you have a closer relationship, start by expressing concern." "Could there be a racial or class bias here [? If I objected to another parent's behavior,] I would tell my kinds to never get in a car with that parent, suggest they meet in a park, and encourage the kids to come to my house instead. I'd also...gather more evidence..." - Colorado Parent, 5/2022
This week at least, I notice that the grimy grey camper with pop-up tent converted to trailer is still along the same short block at one point. Two streets with major former camping convoys are still empty of homeless dwellings. Tuesday morning. I get a clean bill of health from the oral surgeon on my healing teeth extractions. I'm learning how to chew with one less molar. On Wednesday, I notice my one remaining prescription is getting low. I leave a bit early to put in a refill order at the clinic a few blocks away. They tell me they can have it filled in 20 minutes. I decide to wait. But I will have to try and grab a train to get to work on time. With prescription, I'm headed down the street with the long incline. The only pair of campers around are on this curb, with another past where I turn toward the trail. It's a short ride down the trail before I turn off toward the station, were I grab a train just as it arrives. Mission accomplished. Friday after work. I'm down the trail and rolling past a dog park. Off on a grassy patch is a guy sitting cross legged. He's on a blanket with...his cat. I don't know why I'm so hungry today. I stop into a sandwich place off the trail home. The current installation of a series of Mc-managers asks me what I want. "A salad," I reply. She asks me what ingredients and collects them into a container. She's going to charge me before I tell her I also need lettuce. "That's why I sked you what you wanted," is her answer. At a table at a window is a guy with what may be a tool kit next to his chair. A big pizza box sits on the table. This place does not make pizzas. I watch him get up and wander outside before wandering back in. At first I think he's homeless. Until he approaches the employee and she hands him a phone. He wanders back outside. After I leave, I see him sitting at the bottom of some steps next to the trail. When I'm at one end of a golf course where I exit the trail, I pass a couple walking their dogs. The lady says to the guy, "I'm going to have to talk to them again about all the graffiti down here." The following morning, I'm up early. This means I'm out the door early. Down two separate residential streets along the way, I still can't get over the total absence of homeless campers which have been there for a year and a half. It's an overcast and temperate morning. An hour and a half later, I'm coming down a horse trail in an old money neighborhood, behind the backyards of expensive homes. It's just after 7 AM. I spot an older home. It has a woodpile, a grill, a garden hose all up against a wall. Is that, it is, there's a clothes line. From back when the old money was new. I turn onto a street where enormous homes have endless backyards without a single fence. 'Tis a magical place.
Sunday. I take my final bike ride west to my sister's place, the last day it's hers. I'm there by at least nine AM. I stay until 4:30. We pack wall pictures and a walk-in closet full of clothes. The movers come tomorrow at nine AM. The following day, I'm on the way home after work. I'm coming along the long street a block from my own. A lone camper is parked along the curb. I can see that a street-width trail is being laid down along the open lots along this side of the street. The following morning, I'm headed back the other direction down this same street. The camper has vanished. A trio of construction guys are speaking to someone who looks as if she's a mom, about the new trail. Around the corner and across a busy avenue. I'm rolling along the short block where the grimy grey camper was parked. It's no longer here. There is a big trailer on the curb opposite from where the camper was. I've seen this big trailer previously parked along the street next to the open field. It's now right in front of a home. Around another corner and up a hill, I then turn down the long incline before then turning onto the street with the above-mentioned open field. This morning, there is a newly arrived small trailer hitched to a big SUV parked here. A single office chair which has seen better days rests on the sidewalk. A pair of workers are here as well. Their truck is parked in front of the SUV. On the door is printed "Habitat Management." At work, I again stay late to finish everything, just in time to catch a bus home. This particular route takes me along a street next to the trail I take to work. The trail here is past where I both enter and exit on my way to and from work. But I see this block every time I go downtown on the occasional weekend. I'm familiar with the line of campers parked here, especially as one of them is usually blocking one of the trail entrances from the street. I'm tired, slumping in my seat, and absent-mindedly watching the campers whiz past right next to the window. What do I see, but the grimy grey camper, along with its converted "trailer."
Thursday. I'm home from work and headed next door to pick up a carrot from the Vietnamese grocery. Coming across the street is a young guy walking with a big, heavy walking stick. I watch him as he heads down the street for a couple blocks, banging the big cane on the ground. I come out of the grocery shortly thereafter. A short, young woman has just come from across the street. She has bright red lipstick and is dressed almost like some kind of vagabond pop star. Before she takes a seat on the bench, where I catch the bus to the supermarket, she asks me if I have any spare change. It's been a while since anyone asked me for change. On Friday, I'm coming home from work. I'm approaching the last bridge over the river before I exit the trail. For approximately the next mile, I run into five homeless cyclists. None of them have helmets. The first is also approaching the bridge, from off the street. He's balancing another bike across the frame of his own as he rides. He makes his way across the bridge ahead of me as I put on my windbreaker. By the time I'm across, he has vanished into this air, as the homeless are able to do. I'm around a playground and through an underpass. On the other side, approaching me is a homeless cyclist pedaling with both arms in the air. He's singing. Past him is a third cyclist with a camping pack. Through another underpass and I'm off the trail. I'm on a busy avenue with a bike lane. I'm only on this street long enough to cross the tracks on the other side of the intersection ahead. Just across those tracks is a homeless couple, each with a bike. The female appears younger than the guy, who has a huge white beard hanging out of his hoodie.
Saturday. 6;30 AM. Back on the trail to work, I'm again approaching the underpass between yesterday's cyclist balancing a second bike, and the other one riding with his arms over his head. Inside the underpass, the bank of the river is covered in large rocks. Spread out along an area of rocks is a fire. On the trail next to the fire is someone on a bike. Walking up from the fire, on the other side of the underpass, is someone in a hoodie and coat. I imagine that, when homeless, the only fuel for a fire is whatever is available. This fire smells like plastic. I can smell it for some yards down the trail. The following day is Easter Sunday. I spend another 7 hours with the sister, packing up the rest of the old home. On the way there, I pass a woman out on her driveway, selling corn tortillas. This Sunday, I really do ride away from the house for the last time. I come back toward my own neighborhood, past some tiny bungalows. A guy is out on his tiny porch. A lady sits on his lap. The chair looks too small for either of them. A young guy comes out with a beer. All down the block are cookouts in tiny front yards. Tuesday. The high was 80 degrees F. It's my first ride home in shorts and a T-shirt for some weeks. The first trail is full of dog-walkers and bikes, and the trail along the river is packed with bikes. I'm not long out of the door at work when I'm approaching one of the trail's small wooden bridges. There is a log jam caused by a family of three adults taking up space across the trail. It's a family greeting the father in Spanish approaching ahead. They appear headed toward the playground and picnic area across the bridge. I am right behind the trio, and stop until the father points to me. They make way for myself, a dog-walker behind me, and a pair of cyclists approaching me behind the father. The cyclists are an elderly couple on the first two-seater bike I can remember seeing out on the trail. Except for today, a fine spring late afternoon. Perhaps a half hour later, I'm coming along the connecting trail, past the damaged guardrail. Just around the bend, a newly arrived lone pop-up trailer sits parked on the opposite curb. Soon, I'm across the last bridge home and swinging around a bend in the trail. Another Spanish-speaking family is crossing the trail as a Lycra-clad guy on a ten speed narrowly misses them. The father says, "Hey," in English.
Homeless vs Not Homeless
On Wednesday, the predicted high is 70 degrees F. On the way to work, I round the corner with the open field, where a line of campers once proudly loitered. This morning, an SUV with a pop-up trailer hitched to the back is parked here for the second time. A guy is sweeping the sidewalk next to it. Right behind the trailer is another trailer, this one without any vehicle. There is writing spray-painted all over at least the side facing the street. It's a sentence, an observation about being "two-faced" and "back-stabbing." It's not until the end of the following day that I post a photo of it here, and use a magnifying glass to attempt to read all the writing, when I first realize that it has no wheels. Just around the last corner and I'm on the trail. I'm still not used to the seasonal influx of cyclists, arrived just in time for temperate weather. Everyone appears to have some neon yellow somewhere on their gear. In no time, I'm rounding the bend with the playground. I hear someone strumming a guitar, over my shoulder in an alley on the side of the trail opposite the playground. I watch a dog off leash run across the trail and into some tall weeds along the playground. A guy with a guitar comes running after it. An hour later, I'm at the shopping center where I work. I'm inside the office of my investment broker, dropping off my monthly check. I hear someone come in the door behind me and I immediately smell urine. I turn to see someone who could perhaps be homeless. I ask if he's a client, to which he replies, "Yeah." I mention to the office manager that she has a 'client' here which she may not have noticed. She does not appear to think there's anything unusual about him. My work here is done this morning. After work, I'm on the way home again down the trail. I know this is to be expected with warmer weather, it's just that it's been all winter with but a few intrepid cyclists, and this week everybody and their grandmother is out here. I soon turn onto a connecting trail, next to a small parking lot. I spy a homeless van, not uncommon right here. The paint is peeling and the back windows are covered with black trash bags. At the bottom rear corner of the left side is a sizable "BBB" sticker, for the Better Business Bureau. The sticker does not appear to be worn. Not far up the trail, just past the junkyard, is a bridge over the river. Just before the bridge, a rollerblader passes me. Rolling slowly across the wooden planks of the bridge, a young homeless guy pulls a suitcase on wheels. He's in a hoodie closed as much as possible with the drawstrings over his face. Perhaps an hour later, I'm coming down the sidewalk toward my parking lot. I have to exit the sidewalk as a thin short guy is standing in the way. I turn into my lot and the guy follows me. I'm on my front porch when he stands in the parking lot, two or three yards away. He says, "Hey." I stick my head out. He wants to know if he can use my bathroom. He says he's homeless and has more self-worth than a woman he knows, who he refers to as "D", who he claims relieves herself elsewhere than necessarily in a bathroom. I ask him what D has to do with his using my bathroom. He looks toward a tree at the end of my parking lot and mentions something about her climbing a tree. I ask him again what D has to do with anything. He claims he doesn't know any D before telling me her name is Eve, and then mentions something about her being a woman for the ages. I say, okay, what does Eve have to do with anything? He tells me to disregard whatever he said about her. I suggest he not approach residents of a townhome about using the bathroom. He replies that he will "back out." He's on foot, with no vehicle to back out of anywhere. After putting my bike away, I come back out to check the mail, at the box next to where he was standing. He's now across the street, carrying what appears to be a couple of garments under one arm. He disappears into an alley.
...a rugged and motley lot bringing to mind...the worst saloons on Main Street in the Grade B horse operas. Unshaven, dirty, unlettered, mean, nervous; one was in flight from his third wife, another (so the story went) from the police, a third...because he liked to kill... Some of the others had the spirit of buccaneers, fugitives from a safe society. They liked the adventure, and the weapons. - "To What End: Report From Vietnam", by W. Just, 1968
[The Governor of Colorado] signed a bill into law...that bans anyone in Colorado from openly carrying a firearm within 100 feet of a voting location, unless their property falls within that buffer. ...the current intimidation law can be difficult to enforce. ...the bill...could make people who openly carry a firearm feel less secure. - Denver Herald, 4/14/2022
Friday. I'm turning the corner onto the block with the open field on my way to work. I wasn't through here at all yesterday. The pickup, camper, and two trailers are gone. At least an hour later and I'm just off the trail and slogging it up my last hill. At the top I round the corner. Jus yards away is a residential intersection, where one home flies the Ukranian flag on a pole. A short few yards more and I'm on a horse trail, where a couple of dust devils twist along. I stay at work a couple of hours past close, we are that busy. Then, I'm back out on the trail home. I'm coming along around where the damaged guardrail is. Off in the trees right next to the trail is someone on an electric bike. He's in some kind of uniform. The back of his jacket reads "park ranger." For reals? The following morning is another early Saturday trek to work. I'm right back at the same spot where I passed the ranger. This morning, another one approaches on another electric bike. On the front of his jacket appears to be indeed an authentic Denver Police Department badge. He has a coffee in his right hand and a handlebar in his left. Hmm, left-handed. He says, "Mornin'" as he whizzes past. On the way home after work, I'm coming across a bridge past the first golf course. Coming toward me is a purple golf cart. Soon, I see this same ranger again at the damaged guardrail. He turns off onto a connecting trail, toward a pair of ambulances with their lights on at the other end.
Sunday is another occurrence of personal revelation. I ride to the sister's new home for the first time, today from my home. I've been that direction before on my bike. Riding straight down my boulevard, a US Highway, is a ridiculous experience. Though it showed me how it connects to the bike trail along that stretch, sidewalks disappear there. A look online at a city map suggested I attempt to take one less busy street the entire way, which would have been a remarkably straightforward first. What I did instead is take a residential street across my boulevard, a street which I know goes as far as the supermarket. The simple act of following it as far as it went immediately became one of those moments of enlightenment, where a single previously untraveled route becomes another piece in a larger puzzle, a little more complete angle on part of the greater metro area. The residential street went almost all the way up to an underpass through a highway, my greatest obstacle along this route. A couple more blocks, left and right a block at a time, and I discovered for the first time today that I could have bypassed my boulevard's disappearing sidewalks the entire time. An intersection on the other side of the underpass easily took me across the boulevard. Then it was a handful of blocks down a street, up to a high school and a short ride along one of its trails through a field next to it. I came out right on the sister's street. From there it was just down a hill to where the lane ends at a street perpendicular to it. She lives at the intersection. It couldn't have been easier. The section of street along the way to her home, down one of the steepest hills I've been on, is a study in new homes which have been built around dilapidated lots. The new homes appear to be toward the top of the hill, from which is a amazing view of the south end of the Rockies. On the way home from there, I stop into the department store where the employee, with the name tag which reads "coach," acted as if asking if they had what I was looking for was a stupid question. It's a busy Sunday in here. I need two more shirts for work, to replace two which have worn out. It's another one of those moments when I find new items at the lowest possible price, and they couldn't be more perfect for what I need. I ask an employee, someone else who appears as if they are also management, to use the dressing room. I relate my story about "Coach," and ask her if it's part of the digital age that customers are simply expected to know what a department store's inventory is. She replies, not in so many words, that there are no stupid questions. She calls for assistance to the dressing room. It's a complex dynamic here, and not a simple frequency to tune in. No fast and simple revelations here. The employee who arrives at the dressing room lets me know that she's the only one in charge of all the dressing rooms. I smell the old corporate model of operating at the lowest common denominator. The shirts fit fine, I do not appear to have gained more weight back than will keep me in the same size. When I come out, I ask a third employee if they have any bedroom slippers. The soles of my old ones have cracked. She doesn't think so but actually takes a look instead of jumping on her phone. Find them she does. And thanks to some old-fashioned effort from the staff today, I walk out with everything I need. I get home and then head to a place behind my home for dinner. In my parking lot is a guy who may be a resident. He's engrossed with untangling what may be the zipper of a backpack. After dinner, I walk back home. He's still standing in the exact same spot. What a day.
Monday. I wake up way too early. As it's my Monday to open, I'm out the door before the sun come up. Out on the trail to work, I approach an underpass at the end of a stretch with a long line of trees. Up along the road next to the trail is a car parked with its headlights on. Half inside the passenger front door is one person. At the open trunk is another. On the exit ramp from the trail is a third, next to a shopping cart piled high with what sounds as if it's scrap metal. Soon, I approach another underpass, where just outside of it is a guy with a piece of cardboard. Working on his sign? At work, I'm taking out the trash. The dumpster is behind a stone buttress. Hung on the buttress is a tarp fashioned into a lean to. A guy is inside of it. I smell burning plastic.
Do everything you can to get outside. ...we're not getting outside enough. - Mile High Sports, 4/2022
Tuesday. I get a good amount of sleep overnight. The days are turning temperate on a regular basis. On the way to work, I'm coming down the connecting trail to work, along the ridge across from the waterpark. In a little over a month, the park will be open for the season. Among the colorful dog-walkers and occasional other cyclist, approaching me is a homeless guy. He has on insulated pants and a coat, both the same shade of brown. I can't ell what's wrong with his mouth, whether he has stiches from each corner down to his chin, or he's bleeding from his lips. After work, it's nice to leave on time. Perhaps an hour along the trail along the river, I coming to the spot where I was yesterday morning, around 5 AM. Where I saw the car and the shopping cart with scrap metal. Late this afternoon, there are four guys huddled along a low wall, just below the street next to the trail. Perhaps two of them have bikes. Just up ahead, a middle-aged guy walks along the trail. He' splaying hip-hop, and he has the strangest-looking head. A sharp line divides the barest stubble above the middle of his head, and below is clean shaven. Around these guys zip other cyclists. Soon I'm approaching the last bridge across the river, before I exit the trail up ahead. I hear someone shout from across the river. I look that direction and spot someone pushing a shopping cart along the road. The sun is going in and out of a cloud. I stop to replace a pair of clear safety glasses with tinted ones. A lone homeless guy is walking from across the bridge. Cyclists from both directions are zipping past him. But as I watch him, he's looking right at me. He has that kind of blank and quizzical expression so many of them have. He couldn't be more oblivious to the others. He exits the trail and heads toward the road, tossing a bottle into a trash can. Very soon, I'm off the trail and approaching the street with the open field, and which used to have a line of campers. From the park across the street come a homeless couple on bikes. The guy has a bike with handlebars as kids' bikes had in the 1970s. His bike pulls a makeshift cart. The pair shadow me as I turn up the steep hill. I lose them over the rise as they are walking their bikes.
Wednesday. On the way to work, I'm turning onto the block along an open field. There is a pickup truck which appears as if it's in the process of unhitching a pop-up trailer. This trailer has seen better days, and is in the first stages of being put up. There is a couple here who appear homeless, and a third guy who does not. I assume he's driving the truck. He's in a T-shirt from a 2014 Memorial Day parade. The two guys are examining the trailer, I assume in the process of putting it up. An hour later and I'm out on the trail, and preparing to turn onto a connecting one. I pass a homeless guy walking from the other direction. He's in a black motorcycle jacket, black pants, red bandana and a black cap. In his left hand is a butane fireplace lighter. It's turns out to be another day when I'm at work an hour and a half after close. Lately, around here at the shopping center, I've seen a handful of homeless wander past my door. This afternoon, one of those is distinctive. He has a pinched expression on his face. He's in black from head to toe, including a big black backpack. He has dreadlocks pulled back under a cap on his head. When I'm finally ready to leave work, I grab a bus to the train. I'm waiting where bikes board when a young, thin woman walks in front of me. She followed by none other than the homeless guy with the pinched face. I don't recall seeing her at work, but they appear to be together. He strikes me as a decade older than her. The train takes me to the bus, which runs down a one street along the bike trail, north of where I get on and off. There is a block on this street with homeless campers. ...or there was. As we travel down the street this early evening, I can see that they are gone. This is the last street in my extended neighborhood, or on my way to work, upon which homeless dwellings have vacated. When I get home, I elect to run across the street to the Chinese place. I come back the usual way, through the alley. Behind the restaurant is a building converted into new apartments. It's a favorite loitering place for the homeless. A young woman, either with her shoes off or without shoes, is sitting on a concrete block against the back wall. She has a pizza box out of which she's eating. She asks me a typical question from the homeless, do I know what time it is? I suspect it's a test to see if a passerby is at least willing to answer someone who is homeless, and perhaps willing to entertain a small private donation... I don't know what the time is. Just around the corner, anyone can look in the window of the restaurant and see two clocks on the wall.
Thursday. Back on the way to work. Just across my boulevard and around the corner from my street, a homeless RV sits parked in front of a home. Across a busy avenue, the grimy grey camper is back where it was before its last location was vacated. It's now without its trailer. Around some more corners and I'm along the block next to the open field. The lone pop-up tent is up. Not long after I'm out on the trail, I'm just across the first bridge across the river. I pass a young guy who appears as if he may be a homeless gang member. True to this week and the previous one, I stay an hour and a half after close at work. I grab the bus to the train, where again I spot the guy with the pinched expression on his face. Same dreadlocks and cap, same black wardrobe. There is no young woman this evening. As the bus pulls into the station, it honks. I know not why. The guy tuns his head. The station is on a private university campus. When I'm off the bus, I watch his walk into a residence hall. Friday. This week, the first fire smoke of the year has arrived. I'm on the way to work, at the corner of the curb along the open field. A lone homeless guy sits across from the field, head under a hoodie, butt on a low concrete wall. The first pop-up tent is still perched on the street. It's been joined by a second pop-up, complete with generator. A vehicle sits in front of it and another behind. Both trailer tents appear ready for the trash heap, but the vehicles appear to be brand new. The 2nd pop-up and both vehicles will be gone the following morning. Around the corner and I'm out on the trail. Just across the first bridge over what's left of the river, I come across who at first appears a public works guy. Someone in orange is down on one knee in the weeds. It turns out to be a homeless guy in an orange hoodie. In his hand he's holding up a tree root he dug up. Around a tree on the other side of the trail is someone in a sleeping bag. A pickup truck is slowly coming down the trail, yellow lights flashing. It goes past the pair. I stop at the gym before work. I'm locking up my bike when I notice a homeless woman pull a big cart up. She parks it at the bike rack. The long handle is wrapped in pink tinsel. She goes inside, and when I get there, I mention the fancy cart to someone behind the desk. She tells me the woman paid and just wants to use the shower.
Saturday morning is in the mid-40s F. I'm on the connecting trail to work, past the waterpark. Up ahead is an exit for the trail. A lone figure in black baggy sweatpants and hoodie is standing in the middle of the trail. Whoever it is bends down to get a closer look at something on the ground, as homeless do. The figure then slowly walks up the exit from the trail.
