I and two friends drive down to Phoenix. I drop them off at the airport. As I drive off, after the hugs and goodbyes, I feel the type of sadness that comes from love. I park in a mostly empty lot and wander the city alone.
The one good thing about being alone in a city is the feeling you get that you are invisible. Not ideal for a life, but good for a few days. Not a part of the city, not apart from it. In it, as an observer rather than as a participant. A front seat to the insanity. I don’t mind being around a lot of people, as long as I know I’m not really among them. An outsider by choice. Outside of the CVS there is neatly cut grass and a couple of oak trees, I’m not sure which type. A man shouts at his two kids to get back in sight. They are frolicking on the grass, distracting a college-aged kid who is reading in one of the white chairs on the green grass.
“C’mon! You can’t go over there!” the man yells.
Phoenix would be ideal this time of year for a hobo. And a hobo I always will be. The nights are perfect, if you’re into doomsdays. I doubt it gets much below 60. Apparently in a couple years it’ll be 90 at nights here in the summer. The temperature is rising, the people are getting colder.
“You stay where I can see you!” the father shouts at his children.
So many sounds to pay attention to in the city. I hear that song that goes,
Sometimes I get a feeling / That I never never had before.”
It’s coming from the Lucky Strike bowling alley above the CVS. There is a song I can’t quite make out coming from the Verizon store next door. In the CVS that song “Bad Day” is playing. Another song is coming out of the Gypsy Bar above the Verizon store. A bus pulls away loudly from the curb to my left, past the square; the kids yell as they play tag, their dad yells at them to stop playing tag. Another bus zooms off. A group of four guys who would probably be considered hipsters walk by, smoking cigarettes sullenly. Tight jeans.
If I lived in the city I would drink too much coffee, probably start smoking cigarettes as well. Either that or I would work out or run obsessively, until I injured myself through overuse. Something to counter the lethargy and weariness I know I would feel after too long in this type of environment. Or I’d just bike everywhere. The city on the bike would be exciting: dodging traffic, recklessly fast in the center of the road. Some sort of physical adventure in the midst of all this concrete, all these machines. Something to feel like a human being again.
A junkie asks me if I have change. I give her 30 cents. Then I ask her how long she’s lived in Phoenix.
“6 years.”
“Do you like it?”
Brian Leibold 