Maybe I Should Reevaluate

I am standing on Hennepin Avenue, waiting for a bus.

Hennepin, as you may recall, is the only street in the world where I have been mistaken for a prostitute.

Twice.

Today, however, I am not mistaken for a prostitute but an ATM.

“Do you have any change?”

I look at her.  “Yes,” I deadpan.

"Can I have some?"

"No."

She moves on to the next person.

By the time the bus arrives, I have been standing in the sun for a full 40 minutes -- which, by the way, is enough time to freckle yet retain office pallor.  

It is a good ten minutes into the ride that I realize that this is not my beautiful bus (with apologies to The Talking Heads).  The funny thing is that, once you’ve boarded a bus, there’s no real way of knowing what bus you’re on.  I mean, sure, you could ask someone, but where’s the sport?

Behind the bus driver is a wall of bus schedules.  I’m on either the 18 or the 11.  The 18 would’ve dropped me off a few blocks ago.  The 11 takes me roughly 12 blocks from home.

Eventually I de-bus and point my feet in the correct direction.  Less than a block in front of me is a weathered man dressed for urban camping.  He appears to be speaking into what may or may not be a walkie-talkie.  

When I reach him, I stop, look at what he's looking at. On the ground, lying in the grass and reaching for the hedge there is a white squirrel.  He is perfect, no trauma, and yet he is dead.  

“He is never going to reach that hedge,” I say.

The man with the walkie talkie gives me a stern look.  “But ya just gotta keep reaching, right?”

And I walk home thinking about that.