My Walk Home: November 13/2003

[sidekick]

An old woman approaches, holding a purple leash which is attached to a golden retriever, or some other kind of gold haired dog. Anyways, it doesn’t matter. The dog catches sight of a squirrel and tries to bolt after it. The old woman displays quite an impressive amount of strength as she reins the dog in with the leash. She leans over to pet the dog, speaking cooingly to it, something I can’t hear. As I walk past her she looks up at me, her glasses magnifying her eyes to such a size that it makes her look insane. Her wind blown white hair and goofy smile doesn’t help this image either. She opens her mouth and says, “He wants to go up the tree.” I assume she’s referring to the dog, or at least I hope she is. She has some kind of accent I can’t identify, or don’t really care too.

Past her I see a middle aged woman with fried blonde hair stagger down a dirty path that runs parallel to the sidewalk I’m on. She’s wearing a blue dress littered with small heads of flowers with a fleece vest over top. In her left hand she clutches what appears to be a navy blue overcoat of some kind and in her other hand she holds car keys. The key end sticking outward as if she’s getting ready to quickly make a mad dash for her car and unlock it, if needs be.

I walk onward and another woman crosses my path, coming out of a parking lot. She has a face that looks like it was molded out of some sort of clay and then allowed to melt. She’s wearing a trench coat that’s the colour of shit and vomit mixed together, or at least what I’d imagine them to look like if some sick creep ever decided to mix them together.

An old man walks by me, going the opposite way I am. He hides his deathly skinny old man legs inside a pair of brown pants that hang straight down from his hips to his feet. He’s wearing a white fisherman’s hat and averts his eyes toward the ground as he passes me. As if just by establishing eye contact with me will kill him.

Old people are more screwed up than us.