Cold

You ever been to Seattle? It’s like God mists you all day, every day, for ten months. Then summer comes, and it’s gorgeous. I remember that first summer day. I woke up, saw the sun, and immediately got dressed. Even when Wendy called, I just answered, “Hey-what’s-up-the-sun-is-out-gotta-go-bye.”

I ran to the park. There were kids, parents, and everybody else out there, playing frisbee or whatever. I conquered a small hill and, satisfied with the little people frolicking, took a majestic nap.

Then, I heard it. The noise every New Yorker knows: the rustle of the homeless. And of course, the inevitable smell. I turned and saw them: three hippie kids and their dog. Ugh. I had just laid down!

I stayed. I persisted. I fought through it. I was determined to enjoy my sun. No way these bums are ruining my tan. I tried to nap again.

They started chatting, like mosquitoes in my ear, and each breath was more putrid than the last. I was reaching my limit.

Then they talked about how cold it was last night.

I remembered how wet it was, because I was driving and couldn’t see a thing. I got soaked just running to the apartment. I shed the wet threads, pumped up the heat, and slept like a bun in the oven.

But these kids, they slept in the rain. The whole night. I could hear their voices, still trembling, as they described their night. I imagined them clutching their blankets, shivering under a dark bridge.

I saw their nightly struggles with Seattle on their faces and their clothes; I heard it in their voices.

That sunny day, we were all human.