By Katy Kazmierski (Outside Looking In)
Smog was thick over the Inland Empire as it lay folded smugly into the valley between the hills. It was a Saturday night, and Los Angeles was alive, and glorying in being alive.
At the peak of the hill, just where the terrain opens out and the city can be seen, a man in his shirt sleeves crouched at the side of the highway. He looked like he belonged to the sporty silver car few miles behind him...except he didn't have a flat tire, and looked more woebegone and dust-covered than the spunky little vehicle that just hadn't been able to make it up these hills.
The man crouched, because he was tired. It had been a hot day, very hot; and as he grew closer to the city warm, humid, stagnant tendrils of air began to reach out to him, borne on a wind that brought no relief. He crouched, because he was discouraged. So many cars had passed him....most probably bound for the same event which drew him to this road, this night. He thought of the tickets in his pocket, worth so much and yet so little, now. He crouched, because he wasn't sure what to do.
He was weary and rather out of shape, and to his slightly dehydrated mind it seemed like a multitude of cars had passed him on his trek from the car. Why, he thought, WHY had he let his wife take his phone charger from the car when hers went on the fritz....he was a reasonably well-off map; being stranded hundreds of miles from anyone who knew his name or cared was a totally foreign feeling. He had looked at the people in their cars as they passed in a sort of hazy disbelief that no one stopped their world to accommodate the chaos in his.
Most of them hadn't even turned their heads to look at him as they swept by: some on their cell phones; some jamming out, bass throbbing the very concrete underfoot; some busily engaged in conversation with their passengers (how funny it was, he noticed, watching someone gesturing with their hands - whole arms even! but not being able to hear a word being said) - children, sometimes, would fasten wide and wondering eyes upon him, twisting their heads round to watch him out of sight - but no one stopped.
No one stopped. No one stopped, and here he was, hot, tired, thirsty, and stranded. So odd, he felt, to feel so alone when he had seen so many people that day; but they were carried in gentle cages of glass and plastic - too busy, too afraid perhaps than to spare him even as much as a passing glance. Weakly he thought how unfair it all was. How unfair it was that this perfect view of the light-spangled, muddy-skied metropolis offered no close prospect of help.
Another hour of walking finally brought him to a small gas station on the edge of town. As he walked towards it, he noticed a homeless man outside, being told by a police officer to move along. Normally he would have taken no notice; today he felt a vague empathy for the bony, bearded man, thin and tan from wandering.
The traveler was just an average man, neither a philosopher nor a hero; walking into the station that held all he needed to make everything turn out all right, he thought only briefly what bad luck it was, being in need on the blind side of life, with nothing to do but watch from the edge as it all went on without you.
Smog was thick over the Inland Empire as it lay folded smugly into the valley between the hills. It was a Saturday night, and Los Angeles was alive, and glorying in being alive.
At the peak of the hill, just where the terrain opens out and the city can be seen, a man in his shirt sleeves crouched at the side of the highway. He looked like he belonged to the sporty silver car few miles behind him...except he didn't have a flat tire, and looked more woebegone and dust-covered than the spunky little vehicle that just hadn't been able to make it up these hills.
The man crouched, because he was tired. It had been a hot day, very hot; and as he grew closer to the city warm, humid, stagnant tendrils of air began to reach out to him, borne on a wind that brought no relief. He crouched, because he was discouraged. So many cars had passed him....most probably bound for the same event which drew him to this road, this night. He thought of the tickets in his pocket, worth so much and yet so little, now. He crouched, because he wasn't sure what to do.
He was weary and rather out of shape, and to his slightly dehydrated mind it seemed like a multitude of cars had passed him on his trek from the car. Why, he thought, WHY had he let his wife take his phone charger from the car when hers went on the fritz....he was a reasonably well-off map; being stranded hundreds of miles from anyone who knew his name or cared was a totally foreign feeling. He had looked at the people in their cars as they passed in a sort of hazy disbelief that no one stopped their world to accommodate the chaos in his.
Most of them hadn't even turned their heads to look at him as they swept by: some on their cell phones; some jamming out, bass throbbing the very concrete underfoot; some busily engaged in conversation with their passengers (how funny it was, he noticed, watching someone gesturing with their hands - whole arms even! but not being able to hear a word being said) - children, sometimes, would fasten wide and wondering eyes upon him, twisting their heads round to watch him out of sight - but no one stopped.
No one stopped. No one stopped, and here he was, hot, tired, thirsty, and stranded. So odd, he felt, to feel so alone when he had seen so many people that day; but they were carried in gentle cages of glass and plastic - too busy, too afraid perhaps than to spare him even as much as a passing glance. Weakly he thought how unfair it all was. How unfair it was that this perfect view of the light-spangled, muddy-skied metropolis offered no close prospect of help.
Another hour of walking finally brought him to a small gas station on the edge of town. As he walked towards it, he noticed a homeless man outside, being told by a police officer to move along. Normally he would have taken no notice; today he felt a vague empathy for the bony, bearded man, thin and tan from wandering.
The traveler was just an average man, neither a philosopher nor a hero; walking into the station that held all he needed to make everything turn out all right, he thought only briefly what bad luck it was, being in need on the blind side of life, with nothing to do but watch from the edge as it all went on without you.