THESE ARE MY PEOPLE
Navigating the day, peripheral vision picks up things
I can’t help but notice.
I notice the people who file through my life. This
relentless attribute has followed me since I was a mere lad.
There are disadvantages to noticing much more than
I need to notice, but the advantages, oh the advantages,
far outweigh the disadvantages.
These are my people. They don’t know it, and I don’t
know why…but these are my people.
Many Birmingham curbs are knocked down for the convenience
of handicapped and elderly and wounded pedestrians. Many
Birmingham curbs are not knocked down, and there is no apparent
logic to how curbs are selected.
One citizen I see is the knock-down curb-avoidance
swollen-ankle brown-legal-folder-woman on her
pain-free descent into incomplete city street engineering.
She carries her burden to the curb, notices that there’s
no ramp, and carefully circles ‘round to the next curb,
which is smoothed down. Every step is taken gingerly,
to avoid as much pain as possible.
One customer at Reed Books always catches me in the midst of his own
monologue. He enters the store in mid-sentence and never stops chatting till
he leaves minutes later—or scores of minutes later. He needs to know that I
am listening to him, and I, the bartender, do my best to continue my work while
paying attention to him. He seems happier when he leaves.
Then there’s the one-foot-wheelchair racer who tries to dodge the traffic while
scooting his one undamaged foot on the sidewalk, creating a manual scooter
that helps him go faster than mere arms or wheels allow. Later, I see the
straining-wheelchair-couple attempting to navigate and avoid four lanes of
oncoming traffic while frantically pushing their big wheels with muscular arms.
They make it safely across, and we the traffickers politely slow down to allow
their passage.
As I drive the automatic asphalt lanes, sweet music from the radio brings peace
prior to mayhem. My mind is momentarily settled.
Amazement # 456: I see a woman on her way to work who isn’t using a cell phone!
Who isn’t texting. Who isn’t primping in the rear view mirror. Who isn’t day dreaming.
Amazing amazement! What’s her problem?
The lone childshoe lies on its side in the median. From a one-legged child? From a
two-legged child with only one shoe? Is it a fugitive shoe that got away from its mate
on purpose? A purposely discarded shoe? An object thrown in anger? Something that
fell off a truck? The lone childshoe deposits its own unanswered mystery as I drive past.
The long cyclist-slope-inertia-ride takes place before me. The bicycle takes advantage
of a long incline to pick up speed and churn the rider’s stomach in exaltation. Hope he
makes it safely to wherever.
The retired majorette still wears her majorette outfit and makeup and the memory of
twirling rests visibly upon her shoulder and on her glossy scarlet-lipsticked lips.
She purchases an old book on how to become a majorette and proudly tells me about
her majorette days long past but ever present.
She joins my family without her knowledge.
These are my people. They don’t know it, and I don’t know
why…but these are my people
--Jim Reed © 2010 A.D.
