scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

4.10.10

i will see them all again tomorrow and tomororow

A man in blue factory overalls and a worn flannel jacket holding a tiny, longhaired dog, its leash looped halfway around and nearly dragging on the ground. Eyebrows close together, mouth a pinched line, he holds it on one arm close to his chest and strokes its silky ears with his other hand, gently, ever so gently, looking straight ahead. The man's eyes are wide and glistening and his forehead is creased with elevens and the dog is not moving and i hope it is asleep.

The most courteous group of labourers i have ever met smile and coo at my daughter and help me lift the stroller over the big steps, from where the sidewalk is being built to where the road will be. One taps another to get out of my way, and he stops with the pneumatic drill when he sees E holding her ears. One says good morning, in English, as i am already past, walking away, but i am unfairly sure those are the only words we have in common and pretend i haven't heard. I do not know what country they come from.

At one-thirty AM a black man is peeing into some bushes atop a short stone wall in the park. Someone has warned me about a soccer match tonight, about the fans coming out, and i am conscious of him as i go past. The set of his shoulders makes me think someone has given him the same warning. Thirty meters later i hear him walking behind me and he is faster than i am. The streetlight ahead changes and we speed up in parallel, it changes again and we run together like he is my brother to make the blinking green on the crosswalk.

A sanitation worker - a sanitation worker - is sweeping the cigarettes on the sidewalk and dodges into traffic to get that flattened soda can, a swish of a plastic bag, then a bottlecap. He has one shiny earring and a very neat haircut, i've had hair that short, i know what it takes, and is in the warmest official orange for this morning with this wind. No hat. It will get worse for him outside before it gets better. He holds his broom so he doesn't have to stoop.

In the video store there is always someone, the Filipino with his son, or the fellow with the glasses and the hairs in his nose, or the one that looks like Popeye, a tall, pink, bald sailor, full of tattoos. I always want to ask him if he got the tattoos in Vienna but they all speak fucking Wienerisch.

Labels: people

scrawled @ 11:34