Sunday in the City

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When I left SuperMegaBabylon, I thought I wouldn’t see the city again for at least a year. Then my dad died, and I had to leave my van somewhere, had to fly from some airport to the town where his memorial service was being held. After less than two weeks, I was back in the city.

I parked my van in front of a friend’s house, on a residential street. That’s where I had the cab driver drop me off upon my return from the homeland. I barely thought about brushing my teeth before I crawled into bed and passed out for a good eight hours.

On Sunday morning, I tidied the van a little, then headed out to visit another friend and get some lunch.

I remembered where my bus stop was and headed that way. As is often the case, the bus stop was on a busy street. I approached the bench at the stop, expecting to sit until my chariot arrived. As I got closer, I saw something on the far side of the bench’s sitting surface.

What is that? I wondered.

My next thought was Are you fucking kidding me?

Someone had shat upon the bus stop bench.

There was both a pile of feces on the sitting surface, as well as remains of a more liquid consistency running down the legs of the bench and on the sidewalk. GAG! Who does such a thing?

I understand when you gotta go, you gotta go. I also understand the lack of public restrooms in many urban settings. I’d even understand if someone had used the bench as a bit of cover and relieved him or herself behind it. But shitting on the bench? It was just unkind to everyone who had to catch a bus on that corner.

I didn’t get any closer to the bench. I’d just stand until the bus arrived, thank you very much. I did shoot multiple furtive glances in the direction of the bench. Had I really seen feces on a bus stop bench? Was it really there? Each glance in that direction told me yes and yes, both by sight and smell.

During one of my furtive glances, I noticed a message in white spray paint left on the street. What did it say? I walked a little closer. The message read “#Fuck Trump.” The political commentator had also drawn a hand flipping the bird to whomever chanced to look. Here was an example of taking it to the streets in the most literal sense.

trump

I wondered if the feces on the bus stop bench and the anti-Trump message were related in any way other than proximity. Maybe someone had jumped from a bus, scrawled the message on the pavement, and had been so overcome by the thought of Donald Trump that s/he had to take a dump. However, if this had been the case, I think s/he would have used the opportunity to further comment upon Trump by shitting on or near his name. I’ll never know for sure, but I think these incidents were unrelated.

I took the photo in this post.

About Blaize Sun

My name is Blaize Sun. Maybe that's the name my family gave me; maybe it's not. In any case, that's the name I'm using here and now. I've been a rubber tramp for nearly a decade.I like to see places I've never seen before, and I like to visit the places I love again and again. For most of my years on the road, my primary residence was my van. For almost half of the time I was a van dweller, I was going it alone. Now my (male) partner and I (a woman) have a travel trailer we can pull with our truck. We have a little piece of property, and when we're not traveling, we park our little camper there. I was a work camper in a remote National Forest recreation area on a mountain for four seasons. I was a camp host and parking lot attendant for two seasons and wrote a book about my experiences called Confessions of a Work Camper: Tales from the Woods. During the last two seasons as a work camper on that mountain, I was a clerk in a campground store. I'm also a house and pet sitter, and I pick up odd jobs when I can. I'm primarily a writer, but I also create beautiful little collages; hand make hemp jewelry and warm, colorful winter hats; and use my creative and artistic skills to decorate my life and brighten the lives of others. My goal (for my writing and my life) is to be real. I don't like fake, and I don't want to share fake. I want to share my authentic thoughts and feelings. I want to give others space and permission to share their authentic selves. Sometimes I think the best way to support others is to leave them alone and allow them to be. I am more than just a rubber tramp artist. I'm fat. I'm funny. I'm flawed. I try to be kind. I'm often grouchy. I am awed by the stars in the dark desert night. I hope my writing moves people. If my writing makes someone laugh or cry or feel angry or happy or troubled or comforted, I have done my job. If my writing makes someone think and question and try a little harder, I've done my job. If my writing opens a door for someone, changes a life, I have done my job well. I hope you enjoy my blog posts, my word and pictures, the work I've done to express myself in a way others will understand. I hope you appreciate the time and energy I put into each post. I hope you will click the like button each time you like what you have read. I hope you will share posts with the people in your life. I hope you'll leave a comment and share your authentic self with me and this blog's other readers. Thank you for reading.  A writer without readers is very sad indeed.

One Response »

  1. Waaaaay too many Americans are just totally self-centered. They do what they want to do, and never mind what anyone else thinks. I’m thinking it was likely a Millennial (Generation Me — very aptly named), the foremost runner of the Me First, Last & Always mindset. Probably a guy, and he probably thought it was cute.

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