Warriors

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I didn’t have to work until the afternoon. I managed to put off having to go anywhere downtown until after the parade. This meant noticing the swelling of the city’s population and the celebration on city streets nearby at the margins. I looked out my bedroom window and saw a plane skywriting hashtags into the fathomless blue overhead, and thought to myself, there’s a job minting money on a day like today with hundreds of thousands of people out. There’s a war on for people’s attentions, and what’s easier than little white puffs of smoke out a plane’s rear-end?

The other folks fighting the day’s battle were the men tasked with gathering up all the crowd-control barriers lining the downtown streets, navigating confetti and sandbags and suspect curbs to lift them onto flatbed trucks.

And then there was the addict leaning against one of the newsroom’s false doors, lighting up a pipe in between racuous tuneless belts of song, cheerily taking the hot dog I offered when I asked if he was hungry, and asking me in turn if I could help him get off drugs. Now there’s a war you don’t get asked to fight every day. I said I couldn’t help him, but I’d handed him food he might remember to consume. Maybe that might get him to tomorrow, but this late in the day, how hard could that be?

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