He squats between the east- and west-bound lanes at a highway intersection near the mall, eating Doritos and sipping colorless soda from a clear cup with a gas-station logo on it. You can see the carbonation bubbles against the sides of the cup, and the condensation mixes with the dirt on his hands to form watery mud streaks down the sides of the cup. His body is turned away from the street light, but he is up the second before the light turns red. He stands and sprints toward the west-bound cars waiting for the light to turn green. His hair has not been washed in so long that no individual strand is noticeable, it is a solid, long helmet of dirty blond that drops stiffly onto his shoulders. All the drivers expect him to start walking between the two rows of cars, fiercely searching for their eyes to increase the odds that a window will come down just enough for a hand to wave a dollar bill his way. And God knows in this cash-less economy, it is becoming extremely difficult to make a good living at panhandling. But he does not attempt to play on the sympathies of those in their air-conditioned vehicles while he stands in the blazing four o’clock sun on hot pavement and breathing exhaust fumes. Instead, he raises his arms, palms open, as if quieting a crowd before a speech. His arms have been so darkened by the sun, the skin so weathered, that his tattoos are barely noticeable. He brings his palms together in prayer, bows his head, and is momentarily still. Seconds before the light turns green, he does the sign of the cross at each of the rows of cars before sprinting back to his Doritos and, by now, hot soda.
She walks across the street in morning rush hour traffic, not looking to make sure no cars are turning, because it is her right-of-way, and because she is in as much of a hurry as the people in the cars. Her gaze, hidden behind extra-thick, professionally applied lashes, is honed in on the phone screen she holds in both hands, her thumbs typing away as she walks. Her leggings hug at her hips, just below her rounded belly, the bling of her belly-button ring reflecting the morning light and creating a little glow that seems to envelop her. Her small, soft breasts, unrestrained by her crop-top, bouncing effortlessly to the rhythm of her steps. She carries her body with the confidence of beauty that only youth can afford.
He leans at a steep angle on the cross-walk post. The walk signal flashes the white person-shaped figure indicating it is safe to cross. He does not move. The flashing turns to red numbers, counting down to zero, telling him to hurry. He does not move. The same pattern cycles on the adjacent street. The man is clearly not waiting to cross the street. His comb-over did not withstand the wind today, and wisps of his used to be blond hair point away from his bald spot. His mustache, stained orange by cigarettes, covers his upper lip. His short-sleeve button-up is unbuttoned, revealing a brown chest as bald as his head, a thick pendant dangling just above his navel. The pendant is meant to sit between his man-boob, but his torso is short, he is short, so it hangs just above his navel instead. His jean legs are rolled in thick rolls about his ankles, clearly made for a much taller man. His left shoulder and arm lean against the post, while his right arm dangles at his side, holding a lit cigarette. He is watching the gentrifiers, in their pretty cars, as they make their way home from work.
Clusters of teens stand near each other at the corner, in front of the gate to an apartment complex. The girls with the ironed-out curls and the too-tight shirts stand together. The girls with the baggy jeans and the anime tees stand together. The latter group is less chatty. The boys separate into groups by bulk and intellect. And there is also an anime bunch that hoovers close the the girl-anime group. The boys and the girls are hyperaware of each other, and both pretend not to be. The long yellow bus slows, then stops at the corner. The arm commanding the cars to stop swings open on the driver’s side of the bus. The kids slowly get on. The driver spots a kid at the other end of the long driveway leading to the gate, so she waits patiently. She does not want to be responsible for any kid missing school. The kid, a boy, is dressed in a baggy dark-gray hoodie, baggy jeans, and black canvas shoes. His hair is long and an unnatural black. Instead of a backpack, he carries a skateboard. He walks lazily. The driver is becoming impatient, muttering under her breath. She promised her honey she would meet her for coffee after she finished her high-school route, and if this kid takes much longer, she will have to go from this route to the elementary school route without a break. The kid reaches the gate, glances at the bus, makes eye contact with the driver, and without any sign of acknowledgement, sets his skateboard on the side walk, and skates in the opposite direction. The stop sign on the bus and the door glide shut and the bus moves forward through the intersection.
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