The Man in the Center Divide
He’s younger than he looks. He was even handsome once before the debris and dirt of an asphalt life burrowed its way into his once fair skin. Cracked lips and etched lines narrate the free fall of a life that once seemed in full bloom. His hands would put a longshoreman’s to shame, his palms callused, his fingers painted with permanent grease. And he still can’t make a fist because of a tussle at a shelter that later banned him. His only offense was defending himself.
He’s got a bum knee, adding a hitch to a step already devoid of bounce. He pushes an old shopping cart with everything he owns tightly packed between the rusty medal grids. A plastic milk cart sits beneath a comforter stained with blood and reeks of urine.
His movements appear aimless, but are carefully mapped. Every park, kitchen, or underpass is a means to move the time — to ease the burden of living. On days deemed less bad he goes where he can sit quietly with the sun on his face, the wind at his back. But mostly, he just goes where he’s tolerated.
He goes weeks, sometimes months without exchanging a word to anyone but himself. He knows in order to be heard you must first be seen. He can’t remember the last time he was touched, or heard his name. It’s hard when you can’t bear to lift your gaze from the asphalt.
Every evening, the sounds of NPR and soft rock waft out of idling cars as commuters inch their wearied spirits home. The glow from the sea of break lights could illuminate the world. Anxious drivers barrel through yellow and sometimes red, but not for merlot or Netflix binges. They dread the thought of sharing time and space with the man in the center divide.
His frail hands hold a sign that reads, “Living on a Prayer.” Only it’s not true. He stopped praying ages ago. Cars screech just inches from his tired frame, sometimes well past the thick white lines of the crosswalk — anything to put him in their rearview. If that doesn’t work, they bury their faces in touchscreens, or suddenly feel compelled to clean the dashboard or turn the dial.
By 10:00 pm the cars are gone. The echo of “Walk sign is on across” fills the deserted streets. He rises, using what energy remains to put one scuffed boot in front of the next. He shuffles from one side of the street to the other before rounding a corner. The glow of traffic lights fade. He is alone. There is no more light.
