It's Saturday, and I'm walking from Whole Foods back to the subway, wading through the humidity and lugging small bags full of organic bullshit. A shadow snakes up behind me on the sidewalk and overtakes me. From directly behind me, I hear the caster of said shadow ...

Shadow: "Hey. How ya doing?"

Me: "Ok. Thanks."

Shadow lopes up beside me and materializes into a tall man in a "Chicago Park District" t-shirt. He is walking like a tired scarecrow, and has a mouth scattered with brown junky teeth. He stares ahead most of the time, head tilted slightly back, mouth agape. His eyes are large, dark, and worried.

Shadow: You go to the air & water show?

Me: Nope.

Shadow: Awwww, why not?

Me: I had other stuff to do. Maybe I'll stop by. It's free.

Shadow: Yeah. No. I had to help my mom all weekend.

Me: Oh. So you didn't go?

Shadow: Naw. Hadda help my mom. She just had a stroke ...

Me: Oh ...

Shadow: ... yeah ... just hadda stroke ... and I found out she's gonna leave me all her money and I wish she didn't tell me that and I don't want it, I mean, what am I gonna do with a lotta money? I mean, I gotta help her, she's my mom, and my brother's just ... (shrugs and shakes head) so it's just me, and I mean, I'm 34 years old and it's just me and (rolls up shirtsleeve) you see this? (showing me an obviously homemade tattoo that, I guess, is supposed to say "I [heart] Mom," but looks more like "1 [heart] MPW,") That's how much I love my mom. It's always been Mom. Now she's leaving me all this money and I just ... she just hadda stroke, and I hadda help her, and it's all ... (waving hands in exhasperation) Ahhhh ... I dunno.

Me: Um... Oh. I'm sorry. It'll be OK.

Shadow: (loping across the street) Yeah. Sorry. I'm just venting.

Me: Yeah. It's OK. You gotta vent. It'll be OK. Really.

Shadow: (loping out of sight)Thanks.

I then saw him on the subway, high-fiving a guy with a baseball cap and a briefcase, who was leafing through a large fistfull of cash.

Not so sure there's a connection there. Not so sure how there could be. But, it was an interesting interaction.

This brings to mind another young man I met... E and I had just emerged from some lame slasher flick, and were going down the escalator when we caught the eye of a kid hanging out by the payphones.

I don't know, really, if he was a kid or not. He could've been older than I was, but he was scrawny, wasting away, blanketed with an intangible film of unwell. He had a sheen of Crayola sea-green from head to toe; the whites of his eyes, his teeth, his hair. His eyes, actually, were tiny, and would've been piercing if they hadn't looked so vacant. He wore clothes much too big for him, including a trucker's cap from which jutted matted wads of sea green and straw-colored hair, blue jeans, old high-tops, and a huge plaid flannel button-down with pockets for his filthy, scritch-scratched hands.

He had an elaborate story prepared about how he'd been on the phone with his mom for hours, trying to figure out how to get back to Indiana to his college. He had lost his wallet, he said, and his mom was going to need time to wire him money for a bus ticket, and he really needed to get back to school, and didn't want to have to sleep on the street. He had a folded piece of paper supposedly bearing many important phone numbers, and inaccurate directions to a hostel, where he was planning to stay if worse came to worse, but, according to him, he was out of cash for the payphone, and kept getting lost trying to find the hostel. He said we could call his mom, if we wanted, and she'd verify the tale, but right now he just needed some cash so he wouldn't have to sleep on the street or in the police station.

E gave him $5 and I, my apologies, and we left the theatre in uncharacteristic silence. Her opinion was, even if the $5 wasn't going towards a bus ticket, the kid needed that $5 more than she did. For whatever reason.

Last week, I saw the same kid talking desperately to some lady at a Walgreen's downtown.

I ... don't know what to do. It's so complicated.

Yesterday morning, I was reminded of another person I haven't thought of in years.

I was on the bus, and the man next to me was fast asleep. I was thinking I'd have to wake him up before my stop in order to get off the bus, and had this horrible idea that he was actually dead, not asleep. Picture me trying to nudge him awake and having him teeter off the seat, dead, into a pile of corpse. And I'd be standing there in shock, with the guy at my feet, but I'd still have to hurdle his body to get to work, and what would that make me?

Anyway, the guy was fine, (and I really liked his Crocodile Dundee hat,) but it reminded me of a classroom episode from elementary school.

For part of fourth grade, I sat next to Scott, one of the first people I ever met who was indiscriminately sweet to everyone, regardless of their gender and possible contamination by "cooties." Scott had trouble reading and writing, but he tried hard and never complained, and all the teachers and students loved him.

During a lesson, I had just been joking with Scott, and turned back to my work. I felt something on my shoulder ... Scott's head. Thinking he was kidding around and being oddly affectionate, I shook his head off my shoulder, and it landed face-down in my lap. Befuddled, I moved away slightly, and he fell off his chair and onto his back on the carpet, his head landing last with a THUD that was reportedly heard through the next three classrooms.

No, Scott wasn't dead.

But that setup made you think he was, didn't it? Heh.

As soon as his head hit the ground, Scott's face started to crumple. He put his hands to the back of his head, still lying on his back, and whimpered miserably until the teacher came to collect him and take him to the nurse's office.

The class waited for the ambulence to come, and Scott's brother, Lloyd, came into our classroom to see what happened. Lloyd was a year older than we were, but had stayed back a year and was in our grade, allowing him plenty of opportunity to give his little brother crap during 4th grade recess. Lloyd was tall and big for his age, a trouble-maker, but funny and, if I remember correctly, kind of cute. We kept making eye contact and cracking up while he waited for the ambulence to come for his Scott.

How awful is that? I knocked out my friend, and took advantage of the weird predicament to flirt with his older brother. In fourth grade.

Well, Scott was fine. Turns out, he had an infection in his leg which was making him feverish and incinerating his immune system. He was out of school for a couple of weeks, and I think he had to stay back, but he was OK. At least he wouldn't have to contend with Lloyd during recess anymore.

OK, that made me think of Jonathan.

Jonathan was in my classes from 2nd through 4th grade, and was regarded as a "bad kid." He lived in a poor part of town, he was painfully shy, and frequently had outbursts of temper due more to frusteration than to temperament. He wasn't a mean little boy, just seldom praised, and he had difficulties with school work and with friends. He had pale skin, deep set eyes, red lips, and crazy black hair. He always wore oversized hiking boots.

Despite his problems with reading and penmanship, Jonathan wrote beautiful stories. Short, and simple, and poignant beyond his years and/or perceived ability.

I remember one assignment, 3rd grade, we were told to write a one-page story about a pet we would like to have. The next day, Mrs. R asked for volunteers to read their bits, and a few hands were raised. To my surprise, however, she instead called on Jonathan, who was seated next to me trying his best to become invisible. He reluctantly picked up his story about a fantasy puppy and read.

I only remember one line: "My puppy and I would never stop playing. He would lick my face and make me laugh until I got the hiccups." For the record, I almost never saw Jonathan laugh.

He finished his story and immediately lowered his head onto his folded arms on his desk, his thatch of black hair framing his beet-red ears.

So many of us wrote about ponies and flying bunnies ... Jonathan wrote about a puppy that reminded him of how to act like a kid.

The last time I saw Jonathan, I was 17 and driving to my best friend's house in my hometown. He was standing on the train tracks, smoking a cigerette with a buddy, and literally toe-ing the line between the "good side" and the "wrong side."

No one is so big that they can't fall through the cracks.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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