[A current volunteer for] one of the largest food recovery and distribution services in Colorado...founded...in 2009 [used to be an elementary school teacher. She] was keenly aware of how many students didn't have...affordable food. [The service] has identified 50 Denver neighborhoods that qualify as food deserts, where...poverty rates are typically above average. [The service's] mobile food markets...bring free groceries to neighborhoods...at rotating locations... [What residents don't have to worry about at these markets is] "a bag of food that they take home and...open...and find that they don't know what it is...how to prepare it, or [that] they don't like it." [A couple of volunteers who have been] at a mobile market near [a elementary school in my neighborhood] since 2021...like feeling connected to their community... "Communities know what they need. ...a host partner...can say 'we've talked to our community...and they want this.'"
An informed dialogue on homelessness. Regis University is hosting...Regis Conversations and...homelessness is the inaugural topic. The public is invited to participate... "An Informed Dialogue Around the Complexities of Homelessness,"...will feature a panel of local experts... - Washington Park Profile, 11/1/2023
[The big municipality directly east of downtown Denver] has a foreign-born population of roughly 87,000 people out of more than 390,000 residents; 160 languages are spoken in the city schools. ..many of those...are from Africa. "They just bring you. You don't even know where you are going. They just put you in the flight, and when you reach where you are going, they are like: It's here." And [this municipality] "had my food"...like fufu...and manihot... [One female refugee] see homeless...in the streets [both here and next door in] Denver, she thinks of her life in the refugee camp [a life which for some lasts almost 20 years], remembering how she used to sleep on the cold, hard mud. "...and I pray for them." [In the camp] it can be hard to find...motivation... "When [dispirited refugees] get here, they don't want to go to work. Some...are going to the drugs. They don't think about having a life...a future." - Westword, 11/2-8/2023
"...finding solutions to the problems in our cities. But where do we begin? ...the public need...is for starting from scratch...and building a special kind of new community. ...always...in a state of becoming. It will never cease to be a blueprint of the future, where people actually live a life they can't find anywhere else today." ...artists and engineers whom [Walt] Disney dubbed his "imagineers" - discuss art, architecture, and philosophy in the lingo of corporatese...that likes to describe projects as 'doable' or audiences as "up-scale." Presumably...citizens would have been idealists attracted...by the promise of...future life. The future will be depicted as "achievable and doable. People are scared enough of the future... We don't want to put them...in aluminum jump suits." ...probably...hand-picked by the Disney Corporation. ...a kind of permanent test market... ...earphones and a receiver for EPCOTS simultaneous-translation system, beamed...via infrared light. ...a touch-sensitive video screen. ...vegetables and fruits moved through a "feeding area" on conveyor belts. Lettuce and tomato plants will be seen growing in hydroponic gardens. - OMNI Magazine, 9/1982
"You need a well-designed space, too. You need the whole package, especially as the restaurant scene grows in Denver. You can't get away with just having good food. [Working in the restaurant industry, it's] impossible to have a family. It's gross. It's smelly." ...and there is a prevalence of drug and alcohol use... [The design industry, however, can] be the epitome of cool... ...a clubby artist's loft...in downtown Denver. "...a business plan for an upscale breakfast restaurant/bar." ...became...the brunch institution [with] over sixty locations nationwide. [The design firm responsible for this success] has a giant neon sign proclaiming it "Enemies of Sameness." "For hipster boutique hotels, you actually check in at the bar... ...I've managed to stay in the restaurant industry without having to be in the restaurant industry." - Westword, 11/9-15/2023
Fun is back in full force. ...beer-and-shot combos are the new standard, even at some upscale joints...from glitter to Cracker Jack... ...a choose-your-own-adventure... In 2016, bar pros...resurrected this long vacant...joint [in a decades-old historically black neighborhood taken over by developers] in its prime in the 1940s, and closed in the '80s... Now it's...appropriately divey [and] often draws a crowds [from God knows what music venue] across the street. The Culinary Creative Group is a powerhouse in the local dining scene...creating a breezy vibe in the neighborhood that's not really know for ["nightlife"]. ...pounding pickle shots on the enclosed patio...this spot is...casually cool... ...classic Den-Mex cuisine... ...late-night crowds include...artists, hipsters, transients and rockers. The drinks are stiff, the bathrooms awful... The vibe is relaxing and unpretentious, as are the patrons. ...a prime corner spot in [the neighborhood taken over by developers.] ...a cool and quirky secret escape...with plants and mismatched furniture. ...the epitome of new-school cool on Colfax. Sometimes Colfax Avenue is so idiosyncratic that it risks becoming a caricature of itself. ...a go-to pre-game location... ...our favorite spots to pre-game... ...smoking wood chips, whipped foam, liquid nitrogen... - Westword, 11/23-29/2023
He began experimenting with different ways to infuse coffee with THC and CBD... Finding the right flavor and ensuring the extract didn't separate from the coffee after brewing... ...a minority-focused Denver incubation course for cannabis business owners. ...awarding him $2,000 to launch his business. The infused manufacturing outfit, launched by...the City of Denver as a part of a...cannabis social equity grant...will soon make cannabis teas and coffee creamer... - Westword, 11/16-22/2023
...it's $220 million Full Steam Ahead redevelopment project, extending the Wild Blue Gondola... ...655 more acres of advanced and expert terrain. Winter 2023-2024 will be a new era... ...terrain park... ...non-peak dates... '''Hoedown Hill. ...on-mountain dining......mid-mountain, full-service restaurant: Forage and Feast. Purgatory Resort... Dante's Lodge... - Westword, The Edge Winter Guide 2023-24
For some weeks now, I don't know how many, a small car which appears to be a homeless vehicle has been parked in front of a carport in my townhome complex. As with many homeless vehicles, it's missing a window. This window has a big piece of plastic over it. Thursday is the 2nd. Dia de Los Muertos. I turn onto the long street a block from my own, along the way to the bike and pedestrian trail to work. The blue tent is back, against a cinder block wall along a field of weeds. Twenty=four hours from now, I will see the same tent with its occupant outside. When I get home from work, I elect to have dinner at a Chinese restaurant behind my place. For some weeks now, I have been frequenting the eateries around my home for dinner, even during the week. Which is where my money has been going. There's also a Vietnamese restaurant next to it. It's a favorite place for Caucasian college kids who I am not convinced live anywhere near my neighborhood. I have had yet to see a single Caucasian college student in the Vietnamese place. Until this evening. In the center of the dining room is a big round table. I've seen it full of big Vietnamese families. This evening, it's host to a gathering of said students. They don't appear to be hipsters, but remarkably plain, as I used to appear at their age. One groovy long-haired redhead is in a miniskirt with a wide belt, and long socks. A few share anecdotes of school life. A couple of them mention fathers who live or work at the University of Kansas. Ah, my old alma mater. Worst place I've ever been. One girl almost sounds as if she's drunk, as speaks as if she's the center of attention. When I get up to pay my bill, she begins to lead everyone else in a round of "Happy birthday to you..." I'm leaving when she makes a command decision to slice the "cake into eight pieces. I think that's practical."
Friday. The week began with a day and a half of snowfall, which quickly melted. The end of the week sees mornings in the 50s F., and the high today will be 69. During the week, I've been stopping on the trail to change my shirt or take off my windbreaker. But when the sun comes up, a gale force wind has come out of nowhere. I can't remember if it's today when I pass the one-legged cyclists pushing his bike along with his other leg. I'm on the way to work, coming down the long street a block from my own. He has something long resting on the length of his handlebars. Saturday after work. It's just warm enough, 68 degrees F., to do another ride home in shorts and no shirt. The following day will be absolutely fucking beautiful. Exactly the opposite of last Sunday and its falling flakes. Even after the first snow of the season, the mighty shoe of dropping temps has yet to fall. 'Twas last Sunday when I was out on my backup weekend bike. Which I purchased from an employee at work for $100. With its Byzantine gear shifts. Which I was unsuccessful in deciphering last Sunday, until after walking it up a steep hill when I figured out how to downshift to ride up the hill I just climbed. I was out in the snow on this other bike because the chain on my usual weekend bike began skipping more than it caught any gears. I suspect it's time for a new chain and cassette. So, this morning, I intend to take it across the street to the stop for a bus, to a train downtown. To the ever-faithful sporting goods supercenter. I'm out the door at 10 AM. This morning at 2, the time went back an hour. When I leave it's already in the 60s F. The chain is working just fine with a little caution. I change my mind and head for the bus to the rec center. I follow the sidewalk straight along my boulevard. I detour through a couple of parking lots, around a disheveled pair coming along from the other direction, leaving no room to get around them. I get going down a steep incline when I take another detour, a short-few-yards on and off the boulevard before the traffic catches up with me. In the process I get around a homeless pedestrian again in the middle of the sidewalk. At the stop, the bus comes right away, and it leaves right away. When I have a bike on the front rack, I always sit up front. I need to pull the seat down because it's put up against the side of the interior, making space for wheelchairs or strollers. At one end, a guy is standing and looking at his phone, and I can't pull the seat down. I ask him if he's going to sit here. he replies with "My god." I only see a couple of bottom teeth in his mouth. Down the way, we stop for a couple with white canes. The guy has a dolly with him. He almost sits on me.
I hit the rec center, followed by the hot tub. I can't say enough about what a perfect day it is. From the hot tub is a view of the sun shining down on the Rockies. A smattering of thin clouds inhabit an otherwise clear blue sky. Earlier in the locker room, I heard someone making childlike noises. It turns out to be a young overweight guy in the hot tub with a female. A trio of kids come running out before they return to the indoor pool. Another kid comes out with his dad and grandmother. The kid doesn't want to be in the hot tub. It's a hot tub. He's a kid. He wants to get back into the indoor pool and the lazy river and the plastic palm trees squirting water. His dad tells him he can't be in the water by himself without a life preserver. He tells his son they will go back inside in five minutes. The grandmother tells the kid she just needs five minutes to soothe her sore back. Then the kid comes up with a tactical ploy. He tells his dad he has to pee. The dad tells him he can't go in the hot tub. He and his son in fact end up going back inside. At some point the grandmother gets out and also heads back inside. It's not until then, when another family of three get into the hot tub, that the guy begins making his child noises. The family appears as if they may not speak English. I get out, comb my hair, and head out to the train station. Along the short ride, I pass by one of those bucolic scenes which are the result of an intersection of a particular day and a gathering of neighborhood residents on a weekend. This rec center and train station are located in a municipality which advertises its historic roots. One of those. As I wait for a break in the thoroughfare traffic, I look over my shoulder to witness a horse drawn carriage turn the corner. It makes its way past a restaurant, it's entrance open and the aroma of fresh pastries wafting out, and the sound of a crowd enjoying this absolutely beautiful afternoon. It the stuff that property taxes and neighborhood associations live for.
Apparently, I Have No Time
I find a break in the bucolic traffic and I'm at the station. The chain continues to skip, and I decide to go ahead and take a train downtown. At one stop, we pick up a couple of younger guys. One has an expression on his face which suggests his brain has seen far better days. He also has missing teeth. His pal is in an insulated vest with his bare shoulders exposed. He has mirrored sunglasses, just as the female with the white cane on the bus I came down on. He asks me if I have the time. My phone is off and put away in a bag on my back. I tell him I don't. He replies, "You have no time?" I spend the train ride writing this blog. I don't realize how fast the trip goes, and I jump out at my stop. I do the short ride up the downtown viaduct trail to the supercenter. It's at the confluence of a pair of rivers, and it's an expansive and popular spot for temperate afternoons. The supercenter, a Starbucks, sunshine, and apartment towers full of young urbanites. I swing off the trail in front of a guy with no shirt. He has tanned himself out of his natural Caucasian complexion. His torso shows the results of extensive upper body workout. I wait until everyone else has entered the supercenter before I attempt to open my own door. I almost make it before a woman suddenly appears behind me and holds the door. I make my way to the bike shop during another busy Sunday. There are skiers here looking to get their skis and snowboards waxed. Finally, a younger female tech takes my bike in. She puts it upon the stand and soon calls over another tech. Both they and a third tech have a discussion about my well-worn and inexpensive bike. I'm close enough to hear some of the conversation. I hear the lone male tech more than once refer to it as "bottom of the line". She cycles through the gears and comes out to give me the 411. Oh, it's skipping. But it ain't the chain, and it ain't the cassette. The bottom of the line derailer is missing a couple of screws where it connects to the frame. This limits the possibility of any adjustments. I wonder if she doesn't offer, before I ask about, a new derailer because the bike is so old. She checks into what they have in stock before she tells me they can order one tomorrow. Should be about a week. And she tells me she's seen worse bikes. So there you go. I head back out into the mellow, festival atmosphere of the Confluence Park, exiting behind a guy on crutches and missing his right leg. His pants are held up with suspenders. I think of the one-legged homeless cyclist.
I get home in jig time. I run across the street to the Chinese place to take out dinner. A combination of Hispanic guys cleaning car windows and homeless are camped out in front of the place. A sign inside asks patrons not to pay anything to the "men" hanging out. I collect my food and head back across the street. I watch a thin guy on a bicycle who strikes me as homeless. His expression is not one of concern, but the way he rides somehow makes the bike appear as if it's going to fall down. It's as if his mind is commanding his arms to jerk the handlebars, but his body delays the action, making it appear as if he's almost moving in slow motion. This somehow makes the bike appear as if the frame is made of rubber. A vehicle waits for him to clear the exit to the parking lot. When he does, he waves at the vehicle. Another guy comes down the sidewalk on his own bike. He does not appear homeless. He asks me something in Spanish, assuming I speak the language. I think he wants to know if I live here. I tell him I don't understand him. The following morning, I'm swinging onto the block next to the open field, along my way to work. I recognize a tiny camper from the 1980s parked at the curb. A good hour later, I'm on the connecting trail, passing by a detour onto a residential street. Parked across the street from a small apartment complex is none other than the spray-painted school bus, last seen parked in an old VFW lot this past summer, not far from where I enter the bike trail to work. On Tuesday, I'm a-openin' this mornin'. Out the door at 4:30 AM. It's almost balmy, it must be in the 50s F. I swing onto the block along the open field. The small 80s camper is still there. It's moved a few feet up. And a familiar falling apart little 80s Toyota truck is now parked directly in front of it. I wonder how the hell this smashed up, broken down thing got here. It appears not to have any shock absorbers. The bed is piled high with the usual collection of junk. There's also a bicycle in the back. Could it be on a rack? I wonder if the bike rack is the most expensive thing left on this truck?
I'm now leaving work in the dark. This late afternoon, I'm going home on dry streets. As I roll through a neighborhood of small mansions, I approach a pair of couples out for a walk, each on the opposite side on the street. I steer past them in an S-curve. As I do, I use just enough energy to feel my tires grip the road, and I use the momentum to swing back into my lane, past the nearest couple. Soon I'm rolling past the graffiti bus. Rather than the "Magic Bus," it's more like a tragic bus. It's moved to the opposite side of the street. Down this trail and up the connecting trail, and off the trail and onto the streets. I pass quite a few cyclists and electric scooter riders in the dark. We'll see how many remain out here when the precipitation rolls in. Speaking of the inclement weather, along the way home I run into my neighborhood supermarket to grab a few items, so I won't have to do it on wet streets. Among the traffic between here and home is a homeless camper travelling to another curb. I get home and throw the groceries in the house. I decide to grab dinner at the Vietnamese restaurant behind my place. I check my mailbox and find a seasonal sale publication from the sporting goods supercenter, where I have a bike in for service. The mailer mentions a 20% off coupon for "any item". I wonder if this includes my new derailer. I walk the few steps to the restaurant where a trio of young Hispanic men are sitting on the ground in front of the entrance. One jumps up to open the door for me. Inside, I ask the manager what their story is. She tells me that they don't speak any English, and that she gives them some food. As I'm eating, one comes inside for food, and shortly thereafter another come in for some water. Hip college kids inside and homeless Hispanic men outside. A perfect combination.
The following morning is overcast. I leave the house before I feel the first drop of rain, and I get to work before it turns into a short snow squall. I believe I made the right choice of wearing the raincoat instead of the winter jacket. Shortly after I leave the house, I'm stopped at an intersection on the long street a block from my own. A tiny silver hatchback turns the corner in front of me. It has scrap metal secured to the roof and a smashed in rear hatchback. The passenger side window is down, as perhaps it won't roll up. The driver appears homeless. I follow it down the long street and around a corner. We both cross a busy avenue and I lose it when I make another turn. I swing onto the block with the open field. Camper and dilapidated pick up are both gone. A few short yards later and I'm on the trail. Soon I'm along a tree-lined riverbank. Two people pass me from behind and both say, "On your left." The first is another cyclist, dressed for the weather such as myself. I can hear an engine behind me. They ain't supposed to be no motors on this here trail. A scooter comes past, with an overweight guy in shorts and a red knit cap. Thursday, I'm on the way home from work. I'm at the crest of my last incline before I'm there. This is my favorite incline. At the bottom, I have enough momentum to easily get to the next plateau. At the beginning of the evening however, a pair of police cruisers are parked at the bottom. Middle of the street. Lights flashing. Rather than come down the hill, I take something of a convoluted detour down the next street. I turn the corner onto a sidewalk next to the cruisers. I lift my bike up by the handlebars, holding it vertical on the rear rim. I walk it down the sidewalk between a line of parked pickup trucks and front yards with landscaping stones. It's a tight fit buts I manage, even with the red and blue lights flashing level with my head.
Friday. Since the time change, I've been having wonderful sleeps. I'm due at work at an odd hour, 2 1/2 hours before my shift. I'm making my way down streets during rush hour. On the long street a block from my own, an SUV is making a 3-point turn. The rear-end is banged up and a black towel is wedged into an open window. The towel is in the shape of a dog with its head out the window. The block next to the open field leads to a busy avenue. Parked at the curb is a newly arrived camper, and it's sizable. At the end of the block is where I make a left into the bike lane on the far side of the street. I'm used to cars pulling up next to me to make their own turn. I don't remember the last bicycle which did so. One does this morning, between myself and the car. We're all turning left. Sunday arrives swiftly. I have a busy day planned. I'm picking up my repaired bike. I need a wall calendar for next year. [I'm old school.] I should get my photo Christmas cards done and paid for while I have the money. And I still need to squeeze in a trip to the gym. It's ambitious, especially since I leave the house late, and never make it to the sporting goods supercenter anywhere near the time they open. Which would have helped with the ambitious part of my schedule. I'm across the street, at a bus stop of mine I frequented daily, from around 2008 up until some eight years past. This morning I sit next to the shelter, which houses a middle-aged guy. He's in a winter jacket and shorts. It's going to be in the low 60s F. today. He has a US flag scarf around his neck. I smell a month's worth of body odor as well as marijuana. Bringin' it literally from the street. He gets up and leaves shortly before the bus pulls up. The bus transports me to a train station. On the platform, I watch a woman slowly walk to one of the benches. She wears a chador, and upon that carries a full Walmart bag on top of her head. On the train is someone with perhaps two months of body odor. Since I get downtown some two hours past my original plan, I decide to walk to a nearby Whole Foods for some soap I like, and to look for a wall calendar. They've always carried a goddess calendar I like. It's got all yer hippie wiccan holidays, and those of other faiths. Their calendar selection is sparse. Neither the Impressionist nor the cat calendars shall suffice. I get my soap and grab lunch and get in line behind a checker who is ringing up a variety of vegetables for a customer. It appears to take her forever to find the price for each kind of vegetable. But these are sophisticated urban customers in this here grocery, too busy with their lives to get excited about a slow line. As the song says, "I pay my eighty bucks for six things and get the hell out." Though there's outside tables on this, another beautiful day, I stay inside on a concrete six-sided seat. I sit next to a guy who just finished his lunch, trash on the table, and is being extremely quiet. He coughs occasionally, but very quietly. A couple of homeless wander past the windows. A couple of police officers quietly wander inside the store.
Done with lunch, I hike up and across and down the steps over the train tracks. I hike all the way to the supercenter. Inside, the bike is ready. The back rack is a cheap one which clamps around the seat post. And I've replaced the original hinges with multiple sets of screws. It's probably even older than the bike, but I've only recently put it on this particular bike. The seat post is too narrow for the clamp and I've been using some tape I purchased at Home Depot, between the post and the clamp. These folks put a nice metal shim around the post, and the rack is as secure as it's ever been. There's a trail which will take me almost all the way to the camera store, for the photo cards. The trail comes out on a thoroughfare through my old neighborhood. I cross a couple of intersections in the hope of finding a calendar at another Whole Foods. They have the same inventory as the last one. Only they have a Bob Ross calendar. I don't need that one either. It's not too far to the camera shop. But I stop at a Barnes and Noble along the way. I don't find a goddess calendar. But I do find one which is interesting. Mission accomplished. The camera shop is just down the boulevard. A kind of a stoner guy helps me use the software. I find just the shot on my memory card, and a card design, and just like that my card is complete. There's a sale on the cards this month as well. They should be ready next weekend. If I had another hour, I may have made a break for the gym. But I decide to ride back home, where I am when I get the call. The coworker wants me to work for her tomorrow. She asks me if I hung out all day. No...not quite.
Monday. How is it already another Monday? This breakneck pace of my life. Get home, get to bed. Perhaps do some cooking before. Get up, get ready for work. Working another open to close shift, on the day of the week when we close an hour later than the rest, I'm late out the door at 4:45 AM. When that's considered late, you know your life is not represented in GQ Magazine. I swing onto the block next to the open field. Over the past couple of years, I've seen all manner of homeless dwelling here. Campers, RVs, camper shells, tents, cardboard boxes, falling apart vehicles, boats on trailers piled high with junk. This past summer, I've seen homeless on the sidewalk, lawn chairs and a hibachi. I've even seen a school bus this year. But this morning, there is but one homeless dwelling parked at this curb. One bona fide, for real, city transit system bus is here. An effing city bus is parked here, and being inhabited by homeless. Hitched to the back is a flatbed trailer. On the trailer is a falling apart SUV. A city bus. Well...why not. I won't be back along this block for another couple of mornings, by which time both bus and trailer shall have vanished as mysteriously as they arrived. When I get home Monday, I get to bed an hour and a half late, and I still get a good night's sleep. I check my voicemail before I go to sleep. My photo greeting card are ready. I've made the trip from home to the photo shop in a half hour, but on Tuesday it takes me more then 45 minutes. Cards in hand, I ride to the closest train station. The platform is comparatively crowded late in the morning. On one bench is someone sitting on a walker, underneath a blanket. I'm there perhaps ten minutes when a couple of transit system security come along. One says to the one under the blanket, "Hey. HEY! Hi. Are getting on a train? Is this all your stuff? You can't sit under a blanket here." My train comes and I'm off to work. Wednesday. I have a big bag of trash I take across the street to the trash can at the bus stop. In the shelter are a couple of middle-aged guy with fucked up faces. One is singing. I have Christmas cards to fill out. Some already have their lights up a week before Thanksgiving. As for myself, I'm getting cards filled out. I could use a place to do it. I head for a diner across the street I'm coming down a street which runs directly through a private university. An oncoming cyclist approaches on a residential street. He's in my lane. He may have no helmet, but he's in a smart windbreaker, shorts, shoes and socks. His hair is styled and he has snappy sunglasses. He appears as if he should be sailing a boat. Instead, as I move into the leaves along the curb, he's making his way back into his lane. He speaks with a voice which makes him sound as if he's been huffing ether. "I'msorryI'minyouyrlane, but somemotherfuckerisfollowingme," he says.
The following morning is yet another late start. I need more diet sodas for work. If I hit my own neighborhood supermarket to pick them up, I can be at work on time if I again take the bus. And since I again ran out of the house without breakfast, I'm back at the cafe where I was yesterday. I was almost here this morning when a line of university students came marching out on the sidewalk directly in front of me. Unlike the guy yesterday, I have no "motherfucker following me." This morning, I'm the motherfucker. The line of students is on one side of a line of metal poles along the sidewalk. Between the line of poles and the street is a thin line of sidewalk just barely wide enough for myself to traverse. I carefully get out ahead of the caravan. At the cafe, I have just enough time to eat before my bus comes. I get out to the bus stop, and shortly thereafter watch a bus come along. It does not even come into the lane to pull up to the curb. I wave at the driver. He sees me and waves back...and keeps on going. WTF? I call the transit system customer service. They tell me that that bus was probably simply being moved from one location to another, and not in service. Because my own bus is on the way. I've never before seen a bus come down this boulevard which is not in service. Okay then. Sometime this week, I'm across the street at the Chinese scoop place to grab dinner. I come out and suddenly, some tall skinny kid is speaking to me in Spanish. He has the end of a squeegee in his hand. I go my way, he goes his.
Sunday. I stooped at my local supermarket on the way home after work yesterday, so I don't have that to do. Laundry is done. All I need to do is hit the gym. So I'm out the door and am headed to the stop for the bus to the rec center. As of Thursday, I think the Summer temps have vacated at last. I stop at a deathburger just across the busy avenue from the stop, and I grab a value meal. There's one guy behind the counter, running all over the place, trying to take care of the drive thru as well as the dining room customers. He takes my order and puts is index finger on a pad, connected by firewire to the register. This is the first time I've seen this scanner outside the DMV. The pad isn't working. He runs to grab another and gets it working. There's another employee picking up the slack. A homeless guy stands in the dining room, his coffee on a table. I'm leaving when the homeless guy is at the counter complaining about his coffee. Then I'm on the bus and at the gym. After my workout and hot tub soak, I stop into a bar and grill. It's the one from which I heard laughter and smelled baked goods a couple of weeks or so ago. When I'm done, I'm unlocking my bike next to a guy sitting cross legged next to the place. He's using a full trash bag as a table for his Styrofoam take out meal. I wonder if the restaurant gave it to him? I turn back to my bike when another homeless guy approaches. He otherwise appears as if he could be a grandfather in his tweed hat and coat with fleece lapels. But there are cigarette burns on the bottom next to black streaks. Parked next to my bike is a scooter. He begins rambling something about the make and model of the scooter before he wanders off. In mere seconds, he does what homeless do. He vanishes into this air. Then a woman approaches, colorfully dressed. She asks me if I'm familiar with the neighborhood. I'm not. She's looking for a Vietnamese restaurant around here. I suggest she ask inside the bar and grill. This the final stranger who approaches me before I ride across the thoroughfare to the train station. The bus is already at the gate. A couple of grey-haired guys get off the bus. They do not appear to know each other. The first guy has come out for a smoke. The guy following him carries a big blanket in his arms. He's telling the first guy something about Jesus. The first guy replies, "I'm native American, I don't believe in Jesus." The guy walks away with his blanket, telling the first, "May Jesus forgive you." The first one tells him to have a nice day. The bus whips us back to my neighborhood. One young fat guy in a plaid shirt is stepping out the front door. He turns to the driver as asks him if he was saying something to him. He means something derogatory. He calls the driver an asshole and exits, to proceed to hang out at the bus stop with people he appears to know.
At some point last week, I'm having dinner at the Vietnamese place which is always full of college students. I'm sitting next to two, one of whom I believe I've seen in here before. She's an exchange student and speaks with an accent I can't place. Tuesday. I hit a supermarket close to work along the way there, for more diet soda. I'm locking up my bike when I notice a homeless guy. He's sitting off at a corner outside the building, behind a delivery truck with his own bike. As always, no helmet. When I come out with my few items, I'm reshuffling the contents of a bag I carry of the back rack when I see him come slowly shuffling over. He compliments my double-lined pants. It's just cold enough for them. He mentions the brand name on the cuff and points out that his tennis shoes are the same brand. He tells me he's wearing out the soles before he shuffles away. Late afternoon on Thanksgiving. My sister is driving me back home from a holiday meal at her place. All she needs do is run me up my boulevard. We are still south of the transfer station, where I catch the bus to the rec center, or to her place. On my side, I see a police cruiser parked behind a tow truck. The truck is a big flat bed. Up on the bed is a homeless camper. Getting towed on Thanksgiving. Friday is the day after Thanksgiving. I had yesterday and today off from work. I run across the street after dinner, to the gas station for a snack. The gas station on my side of the street is closed, perhaps through Sunday. I'm at the corner, snack in hand, waiting to cross. It began snowing last night and has tapered off this evening. A homeless guy is bundled up against the temps, now down into the upper teens F. So am I. He has a nice down coat and I'm in an extra warm winter jacket and ski pants. And this is why I wonder if perhaps he thinks I'm homeless as well. I've been mistaken for homeless on cold days, hidden inside a big coat, wandering out in the dark. He comes running across the street to the corner where I stand. He asks me something which I don't hear. I say, "What?" he asks again and I still don't hear him. He has a face, with a scrape where he perhaps hit his head falling down drunk, which sags on each side. He doesn't wait for me to answer before he runs back across the street. I cross through the intersection when I get the walk sign. I'm due back at work tomorrow.
Saturday. It snowed through the night and flakes continue to drift down. The streets are ridable. The death snow has not yet come our way. I'm getting a start late enough that I shoot for the stop for a bus to work. For the shorter ride to the bus stop, I should have plenty of time. An extra half hour. I'm sure I will be taking it slow. It turns out that I need every extra minute. Along the way, I hit a patch of ice underneath the thin layer of snow. For a split second, I feel my front tire slipping, moving forward though my wheel is turned to correct. I'm across the line between sanity and no traction. I immediately move over and off the ice. At the stop, the snow has picked up. It's falling onto my notepad as I write this, and smearing the ink. The following day, I'm out at the gym. The morning began well below freezing. It's warmed up when I'm back at the train station. I ain't headed home yet. I need to drop off another roll of film at the old camera shop. This means taking the train back north and transferring to a line back south. Further east of here, back to my old boulevard from a few decades past. I take a long wheelchair ramp down to the platform. A homeless guy has his own bike, a long chain wrapped around the seat post. He's awkwardly carrying it down two flights of steps. The train soon makes its way along the track. He runs across the other track as he attempts to keep ahold of his bike. Monday after Thanksgiving weekend is a mad cap day. I decide to pick up a gift card for my brother-in-law before work. The card is a suggestion from the sister, from a big home improvement center along the way. I ride to the train and get out...and forget that I have to ride back west and south for a short way. And the clock is ticking toward the beginning of my shift at work. I ride into a shopping center accessible from the trail. I ask directions inside a department store. A clerk at customer service apologizes, it's her first day. A customer in line alerts me that I, this dummy, has further to go. I should know this. I jump back on the bike which I didn't bother to lock up. No time. I ride the distance to the right avenue. I see no home improvement center. I run into a branch of my bank. The manager points me the right direction. And then I'm there. Again, I don't lock the bike, I just park it outside the door. I ask for a gift card at a return desk. I'm directed to a display of gift cards for phone service. I explain I need one for the store. Card in hand, I'm back out the door. I must go back inside where I left my gloves and sunglasses on the counter. I have 45 minutes to ride from here. I'm gonna make it. I take off my bags, coat, and long-sleeved shirt to put on short sleeves under my coat. I make it to work with five minutes to spare. An hour early as requested. Mondays, we're open an hour later than the rest of the week. I stay two hours past that. Everyone who didn't come in the past four days are back. I grab a train home and get to bed an hour late. I wake up Tuesday with a solid eight hours of sleep.
Wednesday. My Christmas cards are ready to mail. I need time before work to pay a visit to the post office, across the boulevard from work. And time to drop off a check with my investment broker. And perhaps get a snack from the bakery. I don't yet realize that I will end up spending the entire hour of which I arrive to work early, doing all these things. I lock my bike at the bakery, which is my last stop. I recognize the voice of the wife-half of the ownership inside, and I drop in to give her a card. I then spend a half hour with my broker's office manager. She's telling me about life in a condominium complex in a neighborhood with a tax base which far exceeds my own neighborhood. AS she tells it, her condo complex has an insurance company which operates as all insurance companies do. To insure you, they will demand whatever they desire. I suspect this is why her HOA employs a tow company which swoops in and boots any unauthorized vehicle. The boots comes off with a debit card, and not by prying it loose. I'm not sure how well the HOA keeps her and the other residents informed of the tow company's requirements, beyond any fine print in a contract which said HOA may or may not make available to residents of its condominium. Neither am I sure how many residents read the HOA agreements which they put their signatures to. I simply assume that her HOA has the power to make up whatever it wants to, and to make the claim that this power is all spelled out in said contracts. My sister was a lawyer for decades. I have a nose for a legal hustle. The HOA of my own townhome complex recently evicted one resident, and is pursuing legal action against another. Our problem is not unauthorized cars parked for five minutes. Our fire lanes are full of vehicles. Our issues are $10,000 water bills and porches so full of clutter, one carport with its rafters so full of stuff that it collapsed and one back patio so cluttered that the dividing wall between units collapsed, that our insurance company currently refuses to insure our property. We have some distance to go before we begin notifying residents that they have the wrong color drapes in the window. This is the west side. Serve a summons at your own risk.
She opens my card. She thinks my lady is beautiful. I head for the contract post office where the line is short. I buy stamps and put them on my cards, and hand them to the clerk. I now have only ten minutes to return to the bakery for my snack. I make it lunch to go. And just like that, my cards are ordered, filled out, and mailed in less than a couple of weeks. And it isn't yet quite December. That's far less consternation than usual. Perhaps I finally have this Christmas photo card thing down. Perhaps I just wanted to get it done. Christmas lights up, cards done. The week before Thanksgiving was slow, and I filled most of them out then. The days before Thanksgiving were busy. And then this week. Today I stay an hour and 15 minutes after we close, with customers still coming in. But I get done just in time to catch the bus to the train, just as the train arrives, which drops me off just as the last bus home arrives. I think it was yesterday. My coworker tells me about a group if refugees from Venezuela. She's fully bilingual, but somehow mispronounces Venezuela. The refugees are all huddled together along the curb, next to a busy intersection behind a hotel. Just mingling outside. The only news I hear or see is broadcast radio or internet headlines. I tell her about the police tape around a few square yards behind my place. This was last month? It was off in a small field next to a quiet curb with a couple of homeless campers, right behind a small pizza place. I was coming come and had just crossed by boulevard over to my side. A guy turned the corner and told me in Spanish about a couple of brothers from Venezuela and a stabbing. According to her, a homeless guy encountered them and told them to "go back where' they "came from" before he fatally stabbed one of them.
Thursday is the final day of the month. A couple of days this week, I've stayed late. This morning, I'm called in a couple of hours early. Requiring me to ride to the stop for a bus to work. The last couple of times I did so, I barely made it to the stop on time. As I do this morning. The days at work are relatively busy. The temps are settling into a range more appropriate for this time of year. This evening, I actually ride all the way home, as opposed to taking the bus or train. I'm approaching my parking lot in the dark. Between there and the corner is a couple who I at first assume are homeless. The woman is feeding a little dog on a leach. As I exit the sidewalk (which they are blocking) onto the street, the dog is startled. I have my headlamp turned off. The batteries go fast and I save it for oncoming traffic. Not for Caucasian couples walking little dogs on my street. When the dog jumps, I hear the woman tell the man, "You're supposed to tell me when someone is coming." Is that how it works? On this very same patch of sidewalk where middle school gang bangers have threatened me? Now I must be protected from tiny dogs? Well, that's okay. About 50% of dogs out on the bike trail want to kill me. And the gang bangers are out of middle school, and I think they live in another unit of my townhome complex. 'Tis the season. Happy holidays.
