People I'm Next To

I’m next to this guy. He is sitting on a bench next to a crutch. He has unruly grey hair shoved under a faded baseball cap,  several days of a beard, and his clothing is obviously well worn. He is asking folks that pass by if they can help out with some change. In turn, folks that pass by are deliberately not looking at him. I don't have any cash, but this ignoring-the-guy shit tugs on certain heartstrings. I do have the vaguest sketch of a conscience.  So, when it’s my turn to turn him down, I look his way and say, “Sorry man, good luck though.” This angers the man, “Really dude,” he replies, “well I’ll tell you a secret. Karma is a bitch.” He then asks the next person for some change.  I pass by, feeling weird. He wasn’t yelling at the people who ignored him, should I have just done that? I am unsure. I contemplate my route back from lunch and how best to cowardly avoid the street he is posted upon, and suddenly something bothers me. His karma curse doesn’t make

I am next to this line of men. They are single filing it out of a restaurant and walking by my table. They seem to be a group of office folks on lunch, and as such are dressed in a fairly heterogeneous sort of business casual fashion. By this I mean it’s a polo parade. Additionally, their hair (where applicable) is all a very similar shade. As they pass, I sip my coffee and realize I am witnessing at a strange phenomenon. The first man is trail blazingly bald, leading the pack with a shiny, aerodynamic dome that cuts a wind tunnel for the dudes behind him.  There may be a little stubble by the ears, and in the back, but it is clear his follicles closed shop a while ago.  The next man is bald in a skewed mullet sort of way; business in the back, slip and slide upfront. His sides and back are close-cropped but have definite and sustained coverage. Up top and in the front, there is nothing left.  He is pulling it off.  He has come to terms with his personal recession and styl

I’m next to this man. His look suggests mildness. He has sandy hair just short enough to stick straight out, giving his head a great blurry halo. His facial features are similarly rounded with all gentle curves. He is the type of guy that would be very easy to imagine as a stuffed animal version of himself.   When I first see him, he is standing in front of an automatic paper towel dispenser in a coffee shop. He has a tablet in one hand, and a coffee mug in the other. He looks at a nearby counter, which is a bit wet, then back at his tablet. After a few seconds of consternation, he realizes he can spare his electronics and just set down the coffee.  He chuckles at his indecision, then looks over at me with an expression that says ‘oh silly me’. I reply with a nod that says, ‘I-recognize-your-former-dilemma-and-I-applaud-your-decision-but-can-we-maybe-get-this-towel-train-moving-my-own-mug-has-some-coffee-spilling-down-its-side-and-I’d like-to-handle-it’.  He nods, message

I am next to this guy.  He is weathering a heathered purple tee, fitted tan jeans, and gray canvas shoes. He has a scruffy beard, big headphones, and expressive eyebrows.  Eyebrows that just gave me a condescending waggle. This waggle is, presumably, referencing my use of sidewalks. We are in a park, and in the fashion of most public greens, the sidewalks are meandering devices, more concerned with rose smelling than pedestrian efficiency. But, Tan Jeans is unconvinced by their suggestion of an idle pace. Our paths cross as he enters the park. We seem to be headed in the same direction. I am bound by these fascist sidewalks, this intrepid son of Magellan has plotted a new course. A straight fucking line.   This is where he shoots me that patronizing look. Then, he boldly steps from concrete. Shocked and cowed by the genius of his revolutionary trailblazing, I sheepishly fall behind his blistering pace, herded along a preset path. He reaches the edge of the park and immedia

I’m next to this probable berserker. This behemoth is well over 6 and a half feet tall, and densely built.  He is made up of these big slabs of muscle that might be defined, but I can’t tell because his body hair is also quite dense. Given the height, the musculature, and the excessive body hair, I’d say he weighs roughly the same as my Honda. As you might have guessed, he has declined to put on a shirt this morning in order to beat the heat. Or perhaps, he had to brace himself under a portcullis to stop it from closing, and the ensuing bulge of his deltoids and pectorals resulted in the puny garment splitting at the seams. Who knows? His only wardrobe concessions to modernity are mesh shorts and some well-used sneakers. So yes, he might just be a fit guy out for a run. To my eye though that seems unlikely. I am a little nervous. He is running right at me.  His gigantic form is surprisingly graceful.  The iron thews of his legs granting him dexterity as well as speed. His

I’m next to this smoker. He is nondescript, and only my own habit pushes me to note his look. He comes in a bit under six feet and is of a medium build. He has a pair of khakis, and a grayish-green and a tie with a checked pattern on it. As I pass, he briefly and deliberately locks gazes with me. His unsurprisingly brown eyes crinkle a bit at the corners as he presses his lips together in a thin smile. He gestures with his cigarette, and I realize he is apologizing. I awkwardly shrug at him, hoping I am absolving him on any secondhand sin.  Glancing back a few moments later, I catch him turning his head and politely blowing a thin stream of smoke to the side, despite the fact we are entirely alone on this street. There is something strangely sad about this kind-hearted, if useless, gesture. Here this guy is, risking life and lung for a five-minute chemical respite from his worries. Yet, this very practice seems to carry some sort of stress. How much does his concern over h