I’m watching the sun set behind a steel processing plant and a BP, which somehow makes it more beautiful, like it’s fighting for just a moment of my attention before a shallow skyline reclaims the focal point. I inhale deep and my lungs fill with fumes and warm air that smells like tortillas.
The road I’m approaching pities pedestrians. If you’re out here without a buffer then your destination is probably very important to you or doesn’t yet exist in your mind. But fear is useless here, and I rarely see it. In fact, right now I see contentment. A family of three laughing as they cross a side street—a man in a Misfits t-shirt, swiping a white cane back and forth with one hand, his other linked in the arm of a beautiful young woman, while a small, pigtailed girl trots along in front of them. For a brief moment I entertain the idea of falling in love with a blind man and how pure that must feel. Then I make myself snap out of it. I fell in love with a man with astigmatism who says he sees the person behind the eyes.
Today my destination is not very important to me, but I know I’m better off with it than without it. I need the sustained rhythm of an elliptical to quiet the day’s reverb. I’m carrying only what I need to do that comfortably. For the first time in months, it’s warm enough to go outside with exposed skin. As I reach the most fraught intersection I have to cross, I roll up the sleeves of my sweatshirt and pull its hood over my head. Then I hear a voice from the periphery.
“Can you help me get something to eat?”
A young man with an empty coffee cup in his hand is standing against a fence on the corner.
“I’m sorry,” I say to him. “I don’t have my wallet.” This is a fact, but I wouldn’t blame him for doubting me.
He smiles and asks: “Can I take you out?”
This premise is so absurd that I can’t help but smile back. There’s something whimsical about being propositioned by someone who has so little. I think about my lover, who is just down the street, and remember that he couldn’t pay the tab on our first date either.
Still, I reply: “Oh, no thanks. I’m not interested.”
I move closer to the crosswalk. The young man rocks back and forth on his heels and then takes a small step towards me, mumbling something. I shift my weight and turn away. He repeats himself, louder.
“Wanna hookup?”
“Uh… Nah, I’m good,” I say.
I step forward, as close as I can get to the current of traffic without throwing myself into it. A few others are waiting at the crosswalk now, too. I join them in staring expectantly at the stoplight.
Then I hear him say: “Look!”
I look. I see tattered boxer briefs and limp flesh. The other pedestrians either do not notice or are unphased. Or more likely, they do notice but are choosing not to see, choosing not to be phased because it’s easier that way. I often make the same choice, but not today. At this moment I am choosing to see because I know that even if I choose not to, even if I close my eyes or look away, everything will still be there, and if I miss ugliness then I’ll miss beauty, too.
The young man grins at me and retreats back towards the sidewalk, his bare skin still on display. In an attempt to avert my eyes, I look into his. The person behind them is not evil or threatening, but a third, more benign and tragic thing. The walk signal illuminates and I cross the street.
