Anonymity

It wasn’t the soothing light of day peeking over the high rise buildings that woke me up. Nor was it the gentle calls of the birds in the trees nesting above the park benches. Instead, it was the screeching and honking of people all rushing to their destination. It was the banging and crashing and endless swirl of the city’s noise that shook me out of my dreamland once again. With a stretch, I gather up my things and begin making my way to start the day. 

My first stop is the McDonald’s at the corner of the street. It is always packed, no matter the time of day. I stand in line for probably 20 minutes before I am finally able to get to the front, and all the while, I watch as people wrapped themselves in their own world - listening to music through their headphones, screaming into their headset on some work phone call, or even reading a book. It always amazed me how technology seemed to suck the life out of people as any and every “human” aspect was replaced with the newest gadget, not that I would know. When I finally come to the counter, I ask for a small cup of coffee and sausage biscuit, trying to ignore the eye-roll of the cashier as I lay out yesterday’s haul of coins on the counter. Grabbing my food, I am lucky enough to manage to find a seat at one of the window counters, just as a family is leaving. I eat my food in silence and stare at the morning traffic - people doing their best to rush everywhere, be by car or bike or their own two legs. Despite how crowded the McDonald’s is, the seat directly next to me remains empty. It always does.

I sit there as long as I can, trying to take my time to enjoy the food. I learned early on that it is much easier to sleep on an empty stomach than spend the day awake with one. All too soon I finish off the sandwich. I try to drink the coffee more slowly, not willing to give up my seat in the warm indoors quite yet. The trickle of the bitter coffee fills me with warmth, worth every cent, even if I don’t care for the taste. I never much liked coffee in general, but the taste adds some needed variety and the energy is definitely appreciated. But just like the sandwich, the coffee too is gone far too quickly. I get up and make my way to the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the staff hurrying over to clean off my spot, and I hang my head as I exit the restaurant. Usually they are more subtle about it, waiting at least until I get out the door to start cleaning, but I guess they didn’t care this time.

I make my way down the street, walking a couple of blocks to get to my normal spot. The mass of people parts like a wave for me as I try to navigate the crowds, and I’m under no illusion as to why. I am happy to see that my usual place is clean and empty, not that I ever really needed to worry about it. Apart from some of the more “profitable,” and thereby highly contested, areas closer to the main square, people usually respect others’ spaces. It takes no time at all to set up - placing my mat and cup down before trying to settle comfortably for the long day ahead. The constant thrumming noise of the city reverberates in my ears, so much so that not even the occasional drop of a coin catches my attention - it’s not much anyways. 

Time starts to blur as thousands of people all go about their day with each in their own world. As the never-ending crowds rush past, I find myself once more lost in the paradox of time, as everything simultaneously races forward and drags on. On the one hand, everything seems to be in fast forward, everything except me. The cacophony of noise echoes the endless motion of the world around me, while I sit here unmoving, unchanging. Stuck. As I sit here in silence, the world races past before my eyes. And yet it doesn’t, because at the same time, everything seems to move in slow motion. Sitting here with nothing to do and no one to talk to, every single ticking second of time passing by seems to last an eternity. Going nowhere, I am left in limbo, as if in a dream where nothing phases the series of events and I can only watch as the world passes by. Stuck. I guess the world stops making sense when you lose that sense of purpose, a goal to drive you forward and keep things in perspective. I can’t remember the last time I had that. But it certainly has been too long.

By the time the sun begins to set, the rest of the city seems to catch up, still busy but slowing down enough to match the change in mood and time. An hour after sunset, I decide to call it a day. I wrap up my items and begin the trek back to the park bench I’ve taken to using at night, at least for now until I get asked to move. On the way back, I end up taking a detour past the theaters. I used to love theater, musicals specifically. I even performed in Chicago in high school. One song, Mr. Cellophane, always stuck with me. To be invisible - unseen and unnoticed by the world as if nothing more than a bit of plastic - seemed like such a foreign concept back then, especially in high school when it feels like every minute detail is scrutinized beyond reason, if only in our own minds. But now I get it. Just as I am thinking back on the lyrics of the song, I notice a bag skidding across the street. As it moves past me, I step on it and pick it up. Taking it with me, I resume my return to the park, pausing only for a second to throw the bag away at the first bin I find. It wouldn’t do to leave trash on the street, and who knows when someone would next notice that bit of plastic, let alone do something about it.

I finally make it back to the bench, and lay my pack down next to me. It’s not the most comfortable thing, but it beats the ground. I try to curl into a comfortable position and relax. With one last glance at the light-polluted sky, I close my eyes and offer a little prayer.

“Tomorrow, let someone notice. Let someone care.”