Sick people go to the hospital but sicker people lurk around the perimeter, smoking cigarettes by the revolving door or generally being addicted to opiates. Folding their cardboard bed back up around their packing blanket and moving along when the sun rises.
I do not belong on the street corner with a several-thousand-dollar laptop hanging heavy on my shoulder, digging into my tendons and presenting a glowing portrait of middle-class confusion. I would never put myself in such a position but there I am, looking hungrily in all directions for the arrival of the Best Western Hotel Shuttle. The man who I walked past twice, in my confusion, snaps at me, West Side Story style, from behind his shopping cart apartment. I take a few steps back, behind the shadow of the building and hope that his delusions will keep him occupied, solitary.
Seventy degree weather does not belong in Boston, but then again, neither do I. Am I an eager student, clutching a biodegradable/reusable mug of bold blend coffee? No. Am I an emaciated vegan cyclist, dreadlocks flapping in the highway breeze? No. I am here on unfinished business, temporary lodging, miscellaneous mystery solving, category D: none of the above.
To get away will be to appreciate going back. To be in a hospital, and healthy, is to take the stairs to the third floor, bounding up each step with a new enjoyment of blood to the face, sweat to the skin, feet on the ground.
Originally published over at A Thing of Today.
