flashquake Nonfiction

Seeds of Apathy
by Gina Romsdahl

The city seems so small on this overcast winter day. The dark clouds have formed a ceiling overhead and the sky is no longer limitless. The air is heavy and moist on my skin, but there is not quite enough rain to justify an umbrella.

It is lunchtime and the downtown San Francisco streets are crowded, in spite of the weather. People scatter purposefully in every direction, flowing in and out of skyscrapers like so many ants from an anthill. I hope people are on their way to eat lunch and the line at the post office will be short, as mailing the package in my arms is only the first of many errands I have to do today.

A dank breeze blows in from the bay, escorted by seagulls meandering overhead. Currents of air are trapped between tall buildings. Unable to escape, they form angry whirlpools, swirling leaves and litter into miniature tornados. The heavy sweater under my coat is not enough to keep the wind from piercing me through to the bone. The chill is more than enough incentive to hurry me on my way.

I mark my progression down Kearny street by the homeless people I pass by. They are regular features of the scenery. Not knowing their real names, I give them designations in my mind. There are "The Twins," lolling in front of Burger King. They are always together and they are always drunk. One has usually reached the stage of passing out, and lies sprawled across the sidewalk, while the other leans precariously forward, hand extended in hopes of receiving spare change. They alternate roles with superb precision.

Next in line is "Tattoo Man" and his pit bull. The territory they claim is the patch of sidewalk in front of the bakery. His upper torso is more canvas than skin, every inch covered with intricate, multi-colored designs, noticeable only on warm days when he sheds his shirt. Today, he hugs his dog closely, for warmth as much as affection, both of them sheltered within his sleeping bag. The rumour is that he's an ex-convict. The fierce coldness in his eyes attests to criminal capability, yet the care and attention he lavishes on his dog betray a tender side.

Dave's spot is vacant. I suspect that he has sensibly sought shelter from the elements inside one of the local cafes, or the library, perhaps. Dave is his real name, but like the man himself, I only know part of it. I don't know his last name or the life he lived before claiming the concrete in front of the camera store as his domain. I often stop and chat with him, discussing Shakespeare or Greek mythology. Dave is one of the most well-read and insightful people I know. The scars on his wrist hint of darker emotions than his cheerful countenance that I am familiar with.

There is a new face in front of the shoe store, a man I've not seen before today. He reeks of alcohol and urine. His unfocused eyes waver dizzyingly and are so intensely bloodshot that the whites have all but disappeared. If he is still here tomorrow, I will christen him "Red-Eyes."

As I approach the corner I see "Fury," the homeless man that lives in front of the convenience store. Unusually subdued, he is huddled against the side of the building. He is an older black man, with gray hairs peeking out of his knit cap. Normally he paces the sidewalk, ranting and raving, spouting words of hate and anger to no one in particular.The cold drizzle must have dampened his rage, along with everything else.

His only protection from the elements is a threadbare blanket, and he shivers beneath it. A wave of empathy washes over me. I am only a block away from home. It wouldn't be that inconvenient to go back and retrieve a warm blanket for him.

He is trembling violently now. Perhaps he is sick and feverish, or having a seizure. I feel a sense of urgency and I decide to help him. As I turn to retrace my steps, I get a better view of him and understand the source of his tremors; he is masturbating. Repulsed, I walk away.

Copyright 2002 by Gina Romsdahl

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