Concrete Jungle Ecosystem

I hold these pieces of puzzle recut to fit, unfolded and refolded, bent and forced, creating a monstrous interpretation of a newly found scene. It is meant to share a story, relatively demonstrating the life in a city.

Like the ecosystem of a jungle, the homeless men lying on concrete, covered in old chewing gum, and the brick walls leaking old rain onto broken stones below, bellowing sirens chorusing around the banks and the constant clicking of boots or leather knox responding, delivers a message of brazen self fulfillment, or a story of rank and rotten lives. The argument against these codependent, coexisting lives is a silly and retrospective mindset, I must say.  For those that are constantly reminded of the death of equality, or the birth of difference to say the least, it is a numbing agent to brutal concentration of societal misconduct.  

I woke a man who slept heavily on the metal grate outside my workplace. As a coffee barista I encounter these folk often.  My morning bus ride travels across city side to downtown, along expansive business roads littered with dying shops and eroded by years of car wrecks.  A light echo of a stifled vivacious day rings across my broken concrete, and the mumbles of the mentally deranged men and women break whatever moment of silence might belong at five o'clock in the morning. No sunshine bellows the flame of reality, the darkness hides what the daylight teaches businessmen to ignore.  A ratted mass of cloth, once clothes, and a shaken heap of being, once human, now degraded to the level of cockroach as if serviced by Kafka himself.

As I wake the shaken man who was sleeping on my workstep, I do not give him choices or options or bargains, I merely state that he must leave now. I need to open the shop.  I can understand the worries of my small female coworkers, if they would have to wake a seemingly unwell person while the world slept, blocks around, and the only lights let the shadows grow large and dark.  There is little to say in defense of a sleeping homeless man, but to distraughtly fret over a mundane fear induced is to argue that the sleeping dog has but teeth.  This man, once rattled from his slumber, spends a solid few minutes collecting his mental capacity and physical well-being to grow from pile of flesh to transient man. His eyes speak of no dreams, and his face tells of no anger for being awakened.

It is a drast alteration to bring a homeless heap to consciousness compared to a friend on my couch, or a woman in my bed. The gentle touch or low voice building, barely tipping them out of their sleeping state, and pouring their minds from unborn to birth in the day.  Instead of a brush of my lips, or a slight nudge of my hand, I pictured the stern voice I would use before I spoke.  I internally practiced my thick voiced words. There could be no room for interpretation as I felled this man’s consciousness, and the first thought he must have today is to respect my demand. Yes, I demanded awakening, and I stated my expectations blatantly.  He listened, unquestioningly. Though, he more than likely heard nothing of what I said.  He would be used to being awakened in such fashion, knowingly and reflexively beginning a routine of creeping from the waker’s presence. The premises was off limits for several weeks, with respect to our authority and the necessity to keep police uninvolved.  

With a widowed night, left by the moon and joined by the sun who used the windows as a woman uses a staircase.  Elevated and enhancing the view, the morning arrived unabated, unremorseful, and I wished that man was asleep somewhere else. I spent time building the presence of mind to deny his reality and express the pity within my own mind. The problem, of course, is that he didn’t go back to sleep. His hidden area was crushed, and the rush hour of suit clad men touting leather bags and paper cups was screaming for any dirt covered being to move on fast.  

A coagulated suit of a man pressed through the cafe door. Boastful with friend behind, and loud in his mannerisms. A high cheeked expression, built with toothpicks shoved along a fresh shaved jawline, he stared through walls to ensure his wants were found.  Altering his path was unheard of. Each step from nightly leisure to work life was planned weeks ahead of time. A business casual jacket coursed through with no more than a few dozen wind gusts allowed gleam to reach past buttons and cufflinks, rupturing minute details of shade with glancing spark and light uttering his ownership. White crass teeth shone more than fluorescent bulbs above, and he said no words but the demand for his coffee.  My reflexive responses returned to him a paper cup, full, a transaction taking no more thought than a dismissal of existence to him. He placed money on the counter, never once looking at me, and turned away with his friend to leave.