Digital Demolition

You walk up the street quickly – but not too much so, your body a study in casual indifference. You’re dressed not too anything …. neither too nice nor too grubby. You look ahead … not too high and not too low. Your demeanor is a tribute to many years living in a city.

You look down when necessary to avoid a nasty chunk of sidewalk or the errant pile of poo, your injured ankle begging for attention, but you don’t look too long, lest you seem weak. Don’t limp. Don’t appear vulnerable.

At least it’s early – only a couple of hours after sundown. The real players aren’t up and about yet, only the rookies and the truly desperate. You can cruise by them before they realize someone has passed.

You listen to your internal narrator dictate the countless events that have led to your acute awareness now. You curse it as silently as it speaks, asking for some quiet in which to complete your journey. The slight scent of human urine enters your nostrils as you see a building “leaking” – you exhale quickly through your mouth – another survival method testament to your long existence in this environment.

You pass the street that acts as the border between the bad neighborhood and the good. You quicken your pace just a little. Here, it’s OK to look rushed – it’s less likely that you’re being cased. You can enter a store and not worry about the other clients. You overhear, “once this satanic government is gone, we can get married” from people in line and realize you’re actually not the most crazy one present. And that gives you comfort, even as you again silently tell your narrator to shut-the-fuck-up.

Home – the familiar stairs and signs and smells. The cost-you-a-thousand-dollars today cat greets you at you apartment door. He represents more than a week’s pay, but his presence is worth it. You really can’t put a price on that homey feeling. Of that furry greeting.

Home and safe, the internal narrator finally shuts up. You make a pizza. Watch some BBC. Calm down. It’s good to have a home. You take a few minutes to be grateful and then you can rest.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, January 13th, 2010 at 3:33 pm and is filed under No apparent point, Rambling. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.