Hennepin, as you may recall, is the only street in the world where I have been mistaken for a prostitute.
Twice.
Today, however, I am not mistaken for a prostitute but an ATM.
“Do you have any change?”
I look at her. “Yes,” I deadpan.
"Can I have some?"
"No."
She moves on to the next person.
By the time the bus arrives, I have been standing in the sun for a full 40 minutes -- which, by the way, is enough time to freckle yet retain office pallor.
It is a good ten minutes into the ride that I realize that this is not my beautiful bus (with apologies to The Talking Heads). The funny thing is that, once you’ve boarded a bus, there’s no real way of knowing what bus you’re on. I mean, sure, you could ask someone, but where’s the sport?
Behind the bus driver is a wall of bus schedules. I’m on either the 18 or the 11. The 18 would’ve dropped me off a few blocks ago. The 11 takes me roughly 12 blocks from home.
Eventually I de-bus and point my feet in the correct direction. Less than a block in front of me is a weathered man dressed for urban camping. He appears to be speaking into what may or may not be a walkie-talkie.
When I reach him, I stop, look at what he's looking at. On the ground, lying in the grass and reaching for the hedge there is a white squirrel. He is perfect, no trauma, and yet he is dead.
“He is never going to reach that hedge,” I say.
The man with the walkie talkie gives me a stern look. “But ya just gotta keep reaching, right?”
