I watch people. No, not in a weird stalker sense. And not in a ‘nosy sense’ as I have nothing else to do. I watch people the same way a cat watches and observes from a balcony. Cats, poets, filmmakers, it’s a good people watching group – they get it.
People fascinate me. Their mannerisms, movements, interactions, quirks. The thing is to watch people you don’t know. Otherwise, that is creepy.
I read that Marlon Brando watched people at cafes all the time. He’d write pages and pages of backstory about them for his characters. Obviously, I don’t do that.
But I like to think of where they are from and what they do or why they do what they do.
The city is ripe for people watching. And especially the summer of 2020 in the midst of a pandemic, more time at home, and civil unrest.
My cat and I watch scenarios together. She watches the pigeons and gulls, dogs walking and barking below. She watches humans too. She’s right if she thinks humans are crazier than animals.
I’ve seen a naked lady running down the middle of the street.
I’ve seen a guy on a bike with a sword spinning around and around.
I’ve heard more spontaneous screaming monologues than I really want to.
I see more homeless people shuffling around and peeking then rummaging through trash cans. Watching people can make you sad. Really sad. These are human beings and most days, I ask myself – what happened to them? And why? Where will they be in a month, a year if they are lucky?
Thankfully there are particles of hope in watching people. I’m getting to it. You see hope and life and the good.
The last two weeks from my kitchen window, I see a young man at a Chinese grocer. He is there the same time I wash my breakfast dishes. Every morning. He wears the exact same outfit every single day: grey ski hat, bright orange backpack, white t-shirt and jeans. He stands out because he is black. No, that is not racist. In Chinatown, everyone working at every store is Asian.
He’s probably in his late 20s or early 30s. He is there every morning wearing the same outfit. He delivers boxes and picks up boxes from an older Chinese lady. I don’t pull a Brando and think of fictitious backgrounds. I like to think of something more plausible. Does he work in a restaurant? Was he down on his luck but then someone gave him a break and a job? In this current economic climate, that is realistic. Either way, he is punctual, consistent and there every morning helping. He seems respectful. It warms my heart.
Every morning I see him, I lift up a short prayer for him to be blessed. He is not lazy. He is good. I can tell.
So can my cat.
Fashion Stories & Dirty Laundry 