At the end of an early morning 50+ minute walk with my dog, a man slows down his pickup truck to roll down his window and say:
“I saw you back there by Pinch-A-Penny!”
I squint my eyes at him with a slight smile because he seems friendly enough.
“That’s a long walk for a little dog like that!”
I laugh, and he says, “Y’all need a ride?”
I say, “No, we’re good!” and before he speeds off he gruffly adds,
“I was gonna put you in the bed anyway!”
It’s funny I felt compelled to document this first, because all through my walk I was already writing a bit in my head.
I was writing about the surprisingly cool breeze for this tropical climate in late-ish July. It must be from the storm that rolled in north of us, and I wonder: is she too low to the ground to get this benefit?
I let her sniff the red-rocked landscaping of a steakhouse where she once found someone’s leftovers. I guess I let her try to find it again, to give her some gentle hope, as I scan the ground with precision.
It’s amazing how we might return, time and time again, to a place we only might get scraps from.
During this walk we dart by countless stores in their closed state. I consistently (maybe embarrassingly) admire my reflection in a perfectly filtered mirror outside the Little Play Place, because it feels safe to stare. My natural waves haven’t puffed from the humidity for a change.
There’s a new distraction on the weekends because a Japanese arcade / clawcade just opened. Several young people sit in front of the store waiting for I can’t be sure what, and I want to ask, but instead I keep listening to Lola Kirke sing “Mississippi, My Sister, Elvis, and Me” in my ears and wonder when it opens and how long they’ll be waiting.
I always notice the outline of tiny laurel oak leaves in the sidewalk outside of a sports bar when we reach our halfway point. They look like intentional art in this ordinary place. Sometimes the impressive grid of flatscreen televisions are still on, music still playing, and the misters are still spraying and it feels oddly dystopian with no one on the patio.
The last building we pass where I can truly people-watch and observe is more heavy, but still beautiful in that its occupants are there for appointments. The south side of the building finds the middle-aged to the elderly walking toward the air-conditioned entrance to sit in a waiting room for an MRI or CAT scan to tell them how their bodies are doing. The north side entrance is a little different. I notice mommies and daddies getting out of their SUVs to get their babies (usually wearing cranial helmets) from car seat to stroller. Sometimes there’s a hushed argument, and sometimes the woman pushes the stroller far ahead of the man, who lags helplessly behind. Other times they are lovely together, and I feel guilty for watching or noticing any of it.
The nicest part of my walk is usually Hal, from the Smoke Shop, who I’ve written into a poem before. He greets me and tells me to have a great day every time I see him, and this morning he says,
“God, your dog is happy as shit.”
My darling girl does her famous look-back at this cue (as if to tell me it’s true) and I forget everything else inside her moment of comfort.
If I’m honest, this routine gets old sometimes. I’m grateful when we’re rained out and I get to look at her and say, “Sorry, not today.”
But I wrote all those little moments in my head before the man in the truck pissed on my parade. And even though I’m choosing to end this by mentioning him again, it’s only because I know he didn’t ruin anything.
(Daily Writing 068)
Thoughts?