9am Sunday, Portland Oregon. Downtown.
…a gaunt bearded man in sandals, torn black pleather and dirty grey tracksuit pants shuffles by the corner window of Powells Bookstore cafe, wheeling a wobbling red Zimmer frame overflowing with glistening black garbage bags filled with everything he owns in this world. He doesn’t look up, doesnt see me. I see him through the aromatic steam of a scalding black Americano.
Sip.
A tanned young woman in blue jean shorts , oversized sunglasses, rainbow tshirt and California halo of beach-blonde curly hair struts past, a look of disgust on her face.
So close they almost touch, but not quite.
Completely engaged with a shiny red apple taken from a Whole Foods bag, she scowls and rubs it on her spectacular breast, trying to remove a spot of wax or a blemish, or maybe just as an excuse to turn away. She curses silently, tosses the apple into a bin without breaking stride and then rummages in her bag.
She looks up but doesn’t see me quietly judging them both, invisible through the glass.
He sees only his filthy feet and she only sees her reflection.
They don’t see each other. They’ll never see each other. The moment slides away.
Sip.
The man with a map walks to the corner, never looks up, walks to one corner, then another, checks his map. Scratches his head and checks his watch. He is late or lost or both.
A confused indecisiveness surrounds him. He stops again as the pretty girl on the pink bicycle runs the “don’t walk” sign and cruises diagonally through the crosswalk, instantly blinded by the sun.
I wait for it but the man spins right in a pirouette of fortunate confusion, the pretty girl on the pink bike glides past, legs still pumping on the pedals but squinting into the glare.
So close they almost touch, but not quite.
They don’t see each other. The moment slides away.
Sip
I am my cup today.
Man Down! 