A man spits on the ground behind me.
He’s wearing one of those possum hats. Clearly intoxicated on a Tuesday afternoon.
Dark sunglasses, flopping his head onto the picnic table taking regular micro-naps.
It’s a sunny day, he’s by the beach. A better view than most at 2pm on a weekday.
He spits again, opens a can of beer.
How close did I come to that life?
What if I was pulled over for drink driving, lost my license and ability to earn?
He’s not crying or outwardly angry. Although thats a cartoonish image of a desperate human. A bicycle with no helmet is the least of his worries.
He lights a cigarette, dirty meditation. At least it encourages some deeper breathes. Is this half the effect of nicotine?
How happy is that man?
Should I care enough to talk to him?
Is this his day off, does he want space?
Is he on holiday and trying on a new persona?
Am I being called to help someone who would love nothing more than a hug and a warm meal?
Is he an actor and this is the set up right before a viral prank?
At some point he’ll wake up drunk. I’ll be gone and the sun will still be shining.
Knowing when someone wants to be left alone is a puzzle.
He groans and starts moving again, part of me is relieved, it's been a while since first aid training.
It seems baffling that people in society can be ignored, forgotten or simply discarded. Until we are the ones doing it. Not out of spite or superiority. More a mixture of hesitancy, uncertainty and capacity.
I only hope that man has enough air in his tires to cycle to a place that he can call home.
Human Love,