Walking At Dusk (written 11/23/10)

It’s on nights like this, when the world is trapped between autumn and winter, that they speak to me. The temperature has dropped to below freezing, and there is a slight dusting of snow on the ground. As I walk, all I hear are our footsteps tapping on the frozen ground. The world is silent.

            The dormant atmosphere then provokes a thought: how many of the earth’s creatures died on this particular day?

            I ponder this. The number must be enormous—humans, dogs, mice, insects by the thousands… yet how much of it do I see? I have not seen anything die today.

            I pass by the house where a woman lives whose husband recently shot himself. He was dying of cancer. There was no way out. She was there when he did it. She heard the shot. She went rushing into the room where he laid; she found his body. Words cannot describe the agony she must have felt.

            She must wonder which world he has retired to.

            I hear a click from the house and I look over, trying to place the sound. I cannot.

My dog slips on the ice as we near the top of the hill. “Walk in the middle,” I say, tugging his leash toward the center of the deserted road. “It’s less icy.”

The light is fading, and as the inside of my nose comes into contact with the cold evening air, I fall under the impression that my insides are freezing.

My other dog begins to growl. I look over to the side of the road, frightened. A

plastic bag caught in the dying brambles flutters in the wind. “It can’t hurt you,” I say to her. “It can’t even move.”

            We turn around at the top.

            I see one house adorned with Christmas lights; another still with Halloween decorations. But most houses are dark and unwelcoming.

“Silent night, holy night,” I sing as we descend the hill. My voice wavers with every step, creating a false vibrato. With every word that departs my lips, a wispy white cloud forms in front of my face. My breath looks like a ghost.

            That’s when I see it. She has closed the curtains of the front window of her house. That’s what made the noise.

            I feel it. He’s here. She’s trying to forget. He died with the summer and is felt most in the winter. He accompanies the loneliness, the lifelessness, the sorrow. Every dead being in this world is present at this moment, and he is among them. She is shutting out death.

            It’s nights like this, when the world is numb, that those who are truly dead remind the world of life. The silent world can acknowledge their presence. They walk the earth in this hour of dusk, and on this night, I walk with them.

The Market: Another Day at Work

His focus is on the till. The money: that’s what he wants. I watch him from inside our berry booth. Michelle, my coworker, and I exchange looks. This is the third time he has returned today. What do we do if he comes over? We have a knife we use to cut berry crates in half for people. It’s dull, but how would he know?

The smell of sautéed garlic and onion wafts through the air, and my mouth waters. If the man is hungry, all he has to do is waltz into the market and pick up a few samples.

He glances down the street, then back at us. He’s scruffy-looking and carrying a Safeway bag. Who knows what it contains?

Inside the market, I don’t worry as much. The atmosphere is pleasant: tall, majestic trees engulf the crowd in a safety shroud of shade. There are people all around: witnesses. Still, something about this man makes me uneasy. He stands behind us, out by the street. When our focus is on customers, our backs are turned on him.

A woman comes up. “I’m coming to return these,” she says, holding out an entire crate of raspberries, priced at $24.90, the cheapest they have been yet this season.

“Ok,” I say hesitantly. “Is something wrong?”

“They just don’t taste like anything,” she says, handing me the box.

“All right…” I dig in the till for money and hand her the refund.

“Thank you.” As she walks away, she grabs a few blueberries and shoves them in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Without another word, she is gone.

I take a raspberry out of the crate and pop it into my mouth: tastes like a raspberry.

The shady character has left again. I hope he won’t return. I realize that part of the reason he makes me so uneasy is because he just stands there. If he is planning on robbing us, he’s being quite obvious about it. A real thief would blend in with the crowd, distract us, and have an accomplice to snatch the till and be done with the whole ordeal.

And then there are those people who wouldn’t be able to steal money if they tried. This man is in a wheel chair, his head tilted back at a seemingly uncomfortable angle. This is how he enters the market. He can’t wheel himself, he can’t speak much, and he can’t purchase anything. But he’s here because there is someone kind enough to help him. I try to imagine what it would be like to perceive so much in this world, but not be able to communicate it. The beauty of the world to this man is trapped inside his mind. Only those with a keen sense of understanding could even begin to translate this man’s thoughts.

And behind him, pushing the wheel chair, is one such human being. A fantastic human being. From the moment he steps into the market, wheeling his friend in front of him, the business of the market seems to stop, and my focus zeros in on him. From underneath my canopy of produce, I watch him.

My attention is diverted as a customer hurriedly shoves a handful of paper at me. “Cherries—how much?” a short Chinese woman demands. Food stamps, four dollars a piece. Unfortunately, the cherries are $2.50.

“I can take a few out of each pint and make it four dollars for you,” I say.

“No, four dollar!” she screeches, mounding up the cherries in two pints.

“I’m sorry, but we can sell both of those for five.” I reach over and take some cherries off the top. Normally, I would be more compassionate; however, I’ve seen this lady before. She has cash on her as well as food stamps, and she doesn’t seem to understand that in Oregon, markets are like stores: no bartering allowed. “Here, that’s four dollars’ worth,” I say calmly.

The woman waves her hand in the air like she’s tired of me. She digs out an extra dollar, heaps up each pint again, throws the money and food stamps at me, and disappears.

Immediately, I look up again, searching for the fantastic human being. There he is, chatting with the goat cheese vendors to my left. They chat like old friends as the man takes samples of cheese cubes on toothpicks for his handicapped friend.

“Oooh, he loves that one!” he laughs, and asks “Don’t you, Andy?”

And, behold, the man in the wheel chair is smiling!

The woman and her daughter selling goat cheese both laugh, and the man begins to tell them about all of his friend’s favorite things: food, places, movies.

How I wish something at our stand interested him. Back when asparagus was in season, they stopped by once for a bundle. The man’s eyes lit up at the sight of it. “Ooh that looks wonderful!”

People can’t help but smile when he talks. People can’t help but laugh. As he chats with the goat cheese vendors, I watch him, grinning. Suddenly, we make eye contact. His face is bright and he is laughing at one of his own jokes. I know he sees me, so I look away. Customers. That’s who I should be focused on.

Every week, he returns at exactly the same time: 1:30. I shouldn’t know this, but I do. Every week, he wears cut-off jeans and an old-fashioned cap. Paired with a few tattoos and a t-shirt, he is the epitome of a Portlander.

            His energy inspires me, and I find myself smiling more at customers, complimenting their hair or clothing, and making small talk. When I look up again, the man is gone, and I know it will be another week before I see him again.

            The clock strikes 2:00, and the market prepares to close down for the day. As I stack crates of leftover peaches, I find my mind wandering again. I feel like I know the man with his handicapped friend. I feel like anyone would love him.

            I hope he meets the man who scrutinized our till. I want this fantastic human being to make him laugh.