Home

They were in front of the Chinese Barbeque House, pushed up against the brick exterior, onto the hood of a black and white, the dogs sniffing at their crotches and shoes. I was on my way home when I noticed this. I was just sitting there, on the bus, listening to the Besnard Lakes on my iPod, trying to think of ways to put off studying for my sociology midterm, writing had crossed my mind, drugs too.

The truth is that I see this all the time. Or, at least, some variation of it. There’s always that hooded figure being forced into the back seat of a cop car, lights flashing, siren off. They don’t even draw attention to themselves anymore. The other day, I was propositioned by a hooker. She asked me, while sitting at a bus stop, if I was interested. I told her no. She didn’t seem phased.

When I walk home at night there’s usually people fighting in the parking lot, sleeping on benches under old coats, asking for change on corners, pulling out their hair in alleys, waiting near trash cans for people to throw out glass bottles, scraps of food, wandering out into the middle of red lit intersections, passed out in the wet grass in front of my apartment building, holding their arms out in front of them to see if they can still balance, peeing next to garbage cans, trying to hold onto that dying fix they spent the last week saving for, those few hours where they don’t remember.