week of January 5th, 2009
Last Tuesday, at 4 am, the fire trucks and police cars shouted down my street, which is a typical night on South Street, except for the major fact that they stopped outside of my building. Because one block down, Maria's hair salon caught on fire. The cops blocked off one end of South Street right in front of my building. Through my rightmost window I saw the crane go up from one of the fire trucks and a fireman put on his fire coat. Then came the hoses. But I never saw the fire itself because the street curves so that the house nextdoor blocks off all the buildings beyond it. I looked for an orange aura in the skyline and for a flickering orange reflection on the houses across the street, but I saw nothing. I wanted to know how big the fire was. I needed to know if I should pack up my kittens and none of my prized possessions, but I just saw the rhythmic reflection of red and blue sirens. There was a guy my age standing in his pj's and a hat just below my living room window. He was watching the fire as I should have done, because how many times do you see a fire, but it is so cold in Boston right now, and I was sleepy. So my kittens and I went back to bed. The next morning, I passed Maria's hair salon, and it smelled rank, like burnt glass and plastic. The front door was gone, the tile floor was black and you could see yellow styrofoam protruding from the leather chairs. Glass shards from the broken windows stuck together like the cracked shell of an egg. Outside, on top of the dirty compacted snow, lied burnt bits of pink ventilation filter and some of the letters from the store name simply disappeared. Maybe I should have watched the fire instead of catching a whiff of it the next day.
Then, two nights ago, I came home rather late to find a homeless person passed out on my front lawn, and in my trash. At first I couldn't tell if he was a man or woman, because he was lying face down and his hair was long. But a gray-haired fellow passing by recognized the vagabond on my lawn. So I found out that he was a he. I also found out he was homeless, his name was Roy, and he had had a seizure episode in the park some time ago. The fellow suggested I call an ambulance, so I did, but he flagged down a police car anyway. The two police men were young and dislikable. Absolute power intoxication. They were rude to the old man who knew Roy, and they were indifferent to me. Which means I'm pretty. One of the cops approached Roy with a flashlight and shouted "Hey Brother!" as he shook him hard. I liked that... The next time I need to shout at a strange person, I'll yell Hey Brother or Hey Sister. It sounds like help. To keep a short story short, I went inside before the ambulance arrived because, big twist in the plot here, it was cold. But I watched the medics and police place Roy on a stretcher from my living room window. The cops are so strange. When the fellow and I were gone, they completely changed their demeanor. They were such tyrant-wannabes with us civilians and all laughs with the paramedics. I don't actually understand that. On the stretcher, Roy brought his hand to his mouth as if he was smoking a cigarette, but his hands were empty. Then he made a motion as if to ash it. The cops laughed at that. So did I from my window. I wonder what the hospital will do with him, since I assume he has no insurance or family he wants reached.
So that was my week. I have other less-interesting stories, like the odd manifestation of my tendonitis, but I'd rather end this entry like a blown-out flame. So, poof.
Then, two nights ago, I came home rather late to find a homeless person passed out on my front lawn, and in my trash. At first I couldn't tell if he was a man or woman, because he was lying face down and his hair was long. But a gray-haired fellow passing by recognized the vagabond on my lawn. So I found out that he was a he. I also found out he was homeless, his name was Roy, and he had had a seizure episode in the park some time ago. The fellow suggested I call an ambulance, so I did, but he flagged down a police car anyway. The two police men were young and dislikable. Absolute power intoxication. They were rude to the old man who knew Roy, and they were indifferent to me. Which means I'm pretty. One of the cops approached Roy with a flashlight and shouted "Hey Brother!" as he shook him hard. I liked that... The next time I need to shout at a strange person, I'll yell Hey Brother or Hey Sister. It sounds like help. To keep a short story short, I went inside before the ambulance arrived because, big twist in the plot here, it was cold. But I watched the medics and police place Roy on a stretcher from my living room window. The cops are so strange. When the fellow and I were gone, they completely changed their demeanor. They were such tyrant-wannabes with us civilians and all laughs with the paramedics. I don't actually understand that. On the stretcher, Roy brought his hand to his mouth as if he was smoking a cigarette, but his hands were empty. Then he made a motion as if to ash it. The cops laughed at that. So did I from my window. I wonder what the hospital will do with him, since I assume he has no insurance or family he wants reached.
So that was my week. I have other less-interesting stories, like the odd manifestation of my tendonitis, but I'd rather end this entry like a blown-out flame. So, poof.