The Corner

I was trying to squeeze through the midmorning traffic, hurrying for an appointment downtown. I was on schedule but had little margin for error. The light at Jarvis and Wellesley turned red just in front of me. I cursed under my breath as I brought the car to a halt.

Pedestrians flooded the walkway, in their many colours and varieties. That’s Toronto for you, an ethnic melting pot. Large and small, the world crossed in front of me. One ought to expect the unexpected. On the near sidewalk, however, the sight of a woman sitting on a sleeping bag spread out on the pavement arrested my sight. That in itself was not unusual, many major street corners came with one, begging for change: for hot coffee, for booze, or for a fix. People ignore them as best as they could. Me too, usually. But this person was reading a book. That, as a writer always gets my attention. Was it a novel? Nonfiction? Self-help? Not likely, if she could help herself she would not be there, exposed and abandoned.

Then the incongruity of the sight struck me. Get this, a homeless person, with all her possession wrapped in a bundle, was reading a book. Her entire library in her hand. That she was off somewhere was obvious ... somewhere the book took her, gave her access to. And why not? She had more reason than most to find escape or at least a diversion. She licked her fingers and turned the page, ignoring the world hurrying past her.

I was trying to sort out my feelings. For some reason, I was unsettled. Was it because a book needed a home, a bookcase to be safe and protected? The company of other books? Here, there was no promise of such. Most likely she found it in the trash and it would end back in there. A book deserved better. Woah! Hold on. A PERSON deserves better. She was a living book, with many chapters of her history written on her many pages. Some of the harsher chapters were etched in the lines on her face. And here she was - discarded.

Still, I felt that she had no right to the book. As a homeless person, reduced to barest of existence, survival ought to be the issue. Food, shelter, protection ... then maybe diversion of entertainment. Reading was an intellectual pursuit. What right had she to that? She was not playing according to script. She turned the page. She read that page fast. Was she skimming? No, the concentration was visible on her face. I couldn’t have consumed the page that quickly. But if she was smart what was she doing here, on the street corner? What set of events and circumstances had reduced her to this?

A quick second look. The sleeping bag was neatly smooth, aligned to the sidewalk, not underfoot of passersby. Her few possessions were in a tidy bundle at hand. Even her hair was combed. Whatever had got her onto the corner had not robbed her of everything. She still had a sense of self. The book too confirmed it. She had interests and implied what? Desires?

How old is she? Hard to tell. Sitting on the sidewalk in the harsh morning light, bent over a book, cocooned in her own intent, she gave no clue to her age. Squalor is ageless. The need is to the forefront obscuring all else.

I tried coming at the puzzle from another way. She can’t be very aggressive. Jarvis and Wellesley is not a prime location as say Yonge someplace, with more people streaming by with a better chance at a handout. No, she had found a place here, a less desirable, less competition, less need to defend, at her level of comfort. Even on the street there was a definite pecking order. And she was someplace in the middle. Not high, but not the lowest of the low.

She turned the page. What was she getting out of the book? Who wrote it? What was it all about?
Something that would attract her and hold her interest. A romance? A crimi? Sci-Fi? Or some info book? Or was she so hungry that anything would do?

The harsh sound of a horn behind me brought me to my senses. I accelerated through the green, muttering, "Man doesn’t live by bread alone ..."