It wasn't supposed to be like this....

                I really don’t know how I got here. It wasn’t always like this.  There was a time where I’d bathe regularly, where I’d have soaps, shampoos, razors, everything I’d need to care of myself.  As I look at my old tired and dirty face in the mirror, I’m ashamed at what I’ve become.  I was well coiffed once.  Now my thinned hair, though long, dangles in front of my eyes as if to tell my reflection that there is nothing to see here.

                The thick face cloths I used to used is now a paper towel from the dispenser that I’m trying hard not to shred as I wipe my ruddy face.  I am really not attending to the practical matter of actually cleaning.  The warmth from the hot water on the paper towel does more to warm my frozen face than it does to clear away the grime.  Like my long but diminishing head hair, my beard tries to further hide the shame I now feel after 67 years of what was supposed to be a good life.

                I hear the door to this gas station washroom open behind me.  I peer into the mirror and see a well dressed man enter.  We make indirect eye contact in the mirror.  His movement stutters when he sees me and I can detect the indecision in his face. He’s likely thinking something akin to: “Fuck, I don’t have to go that bad.”  He apparently does though, as he drops his eyes and hustles up to the urinal.  He manages his overcoat, then his other vestments and goes about his business.  I’m sure if his eyes could swivel to the back of his head he’d make them to keep tabs on the filthy old fella at the sink to make sure he doesn’t make a move on him.  I can only imagine what is going through his mind, but I’m sure as shit that fear is an element in each of those thoughts.  I know, since I remember myself, being him.  Fearful of those crazy looking street people and what they might do, or want from me.  I laugh to myself as I notice that he’s bulking out his overcoat so as to protect what he’s holding .  Second to his money, I’m sure it’s his most prized possession.  I chuckle inside when I think, he’ll one day realize it really isn’t.

                I’m  guessing I’ve made this guy uncomfortable.  I snag a dry paper towel and dry my face.  There is nothing worse than a good piss ruined.  I’ll leave this guy to his business.  I hate to open the door to the cold. But out I go on to the street.  I’m disappointed that the wind hasn’t died down yet.  It seems to love to whip up Bay Street between the wind tunnel of the skyscrapers.  How could wind love anything?  How could wind have any emotion at all?  It sure seemed to be angry a lot lately, regardless.

I’d have to find a deep recessed doorway to get out of its biting grip soon.  Hopefully tonight, it will peter out.  I think to myself that the goddamned buttons could have held out on this coat a little longer.  I wrap it around me the best as I can and lean into the wind looking for a recess. 

To be continued...

Later

Deaner