0 HUNGER DEFERRED

You tell yourself your a easy going none fussy kinda a person. All kumbaya and shit. Until you're hungry enough and feeling like you want to cannibalize your arm.

I walked into a Paner Bread joint on College Street, not too far from Spadina, and got in line. When I reached closer behind one man, second to the cashier. I began to peruse the baked delights and stop short, lips curling in disgust.

Flies, those big mofos with blueish wings with gold tips that shit and vomit on everything they land on. Metallic blue-green bodies looking like polished armor, and oily wings that flash gold in the display lights. I read somewhere about what they're really doing on a microscopic level—how they're dropping a nasty vacuum mouth, puking up clear stomach acid to melt down the sugar glaze, and dropping tiny dots of filth all over the place, too small for the human eye to even see.

The staff walked around unbothered i thought "oh hell to the fuck no!" as a couple buzzed around and landed on a fat croissant. The cashier made no move to shoo them away. She looked at the man on front of me and ask, "HI, CAN I TAKE YOUR ORDER?" I stood there watching the flies kiss the croissants. "Nah mmm mmm," I lost my appetite. when you see big ass flies landing on all the food. And your like hell nah, fuck hunger and walk the fuck out.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, my mind was just racing, cussing out the whole situation. They can’t even keep the front of the place hygienic? Clean the damn place, nah! I just kept thinking, what the hell the kitchen must look like if the front look so, with all them fly buzzing around?

Shit, I guess I ain't all that kumbaya after all.

Nasty bitches, lemme go home and cook my food. I know for sure it won't have no fly shit and vomit.

2 BREAKING THE HABIT - LISTENING TO YOUR BODY

I have a nasty habit of holding my pee. I will sit for hours, completely absorbed in whatever task has captured my mind, ignoring the very vessel that allows me to do the work.

It starts with the Tremors. This is the second sign the body sends out; I start at the second because the first sign—the gentle nudge—is almost always ignored. When I finally move, it is a desperate performance: the shakes, the wobble, the swing, the shimmy, and the squat. If anyone witnessed it, they’d fall down in side-splitting hilarity.

Lately, the warnings have become even more intimate. I’ll get signals right through the middle of my palms. I can actually feel the need for release there—a strange, sharp urgency—and I find myself massaging the center where the ache resonates, rubbing my hands together as my body frantically tries to get my attention.

I’ve had "accidents" before. But as I sit here now, feeling that familiar vibration, I realize that "accident" is a reach. An accident implies a lack of control, but this is a conscious choice. I am choosing to stay still while my body begs for relief.

It is a kind of self-abandonment we must be careful of. We learn to stop listening, ignoring the beginning signals only to be forced into a terrible ending we could have foregone.

I’m going to go listen now, before the choice becomes a consequence.

0 SAVE YOUR COMMENTARY KNOWING WHEN TO SPEAK IS IMPORTANT

Save your commentary.

As human beings, we often feel we have to comment on everything we see and hear. I've learned there is value in saving your commentary about some things and wisdom in knowing when not to speak it, even if you think it.

Why?
Often what you see tells you little or nothing of the story; it's a cliffhanger or one paragraph in a chapter of a book.
You may speak yourself out of a blessing or an opportunity. Because what you say, how you say it, and to whom you say it tells a story about you that you may not be consciously aware of sharing.
Unless what you have to say has a purpose of enlightenment, encouragement, or motivational upliftment, then speak it. If what you have to say has neither of those things, then save it; keep it to yourself.

0 HE RAISE HIS LEG, STEPS OVER HER & KEPT MOVING

The escalator devours her dress. She’s on her hands and knees, twisting, struggling, trapped in the metal teeth. A man beside her leans, lifts his left leg over her shoulder, and walks away without looking back. Just like that. Pure weakness. Indifference in human form.

I move forward. The man in front of me steadies her as the woman immediately behind, realizing the danger, steps up to help. Seeing she’s being helped, I turn to the man walking away.

“You couldn’t help her?”

“Shut up, bitch,” he shouts, mad that I called him out.

“What kind of man are you that would step over a fallen woman and not stop to help?”

He walks away faster. As he moves off, he shouts again, “Bitch!”

I look back. The fallen lady is up and moving, all is well.

I glanced at the bus schedule. Nine minutes to my bus arrival. Walking to my stop, I spot him on the way, smoking in a slightly hunched posture. He sees me and mumbles, “bitch.” I respond, “You’re the bitch.”

As I pass, he continues yelling “bitch,” and every bitch he calls I echo back as I move closer to my stop. Then he yells “bitch” one final time.

I stop to make sure I have safely crossed the street, keeping my safety paramount—the bus terminal is busy, buses constantly moving, traffic lights guiding the safest times to cross—and yell:

“Weak-ass pussy bitch. Stepped over a woman and didn’t think to help.”

Silence. Complete and utter silence, except for the buses roaring their vroom vroom vroom as if to say—
Boom. Mic drop.

But the truth is, that moment hit me long before the shouting.

Because I’ve seen what an escalator can do.

When my daughters were little, we were coming from a Brownie meeting. My youngest daughter’s shoelaces got caught—she didn’t realize they had come undone.

Her sisters and my best friend’s daughter, who was with us, were ahead, already near the top. I was still at the bottom, stepping on, watching. Then suddenly my youngest was trapped.

Her sisters and my best friend’s daughter tried to help while I rode up, frantic, unable to reach her fast enough.

I screamed to the TTC conductor in the booth at the top.

“Stop the escalator! Please stop the escalator!”

Quick thinking saved her. The conductor called an ambulance immediately. I dare say my big mouth and loud voice helped too—the conductor reacted instantly.

By the time I reached my daughter, her palms—from the wrist down—were shredded. Her tights were ruined by the escalator. The night was cold. It could have been worse. Much worse.

I called my best friend, as I had her daughter with me. She met me at the hospital, took her daughter and my eldest home, and I stayed with my youngest in the hospital.

After the hospital visit, it was 2 a.m. I had to find an open place to get tights to keep her legs and feet warm. A little treat—a tiny ice cream cone—helped her forget about the pain in her hands for a moment.

So when I saw that woman on the escalator years later, dress caught, struggling on her hands and knees, I didn’t see an inconvenience.

I saw danger.

And what I cannot understand—what still shakes me—is how someone could look at that moment, calculate a way around her, lift his leg over her shoulder, and keep moving like she was nothing more than an obstacle.

Help doesn’t always look the same.

It can be one person hitting the emergency stop.
One person calling 911.
One person calling an ambulance immediately.
One person speaking calmly so the person trapped doesn’t panic.
One person simply reaching out a hand.

But it starts with noticing.

With stopping.

With remembering: the person in front of you is not an obstacle.

They’re a human being.

2 CANNIBALIZING THE MORNING

I sit up in bed and reach for my water; it soothes and embraces me, a cool companion to the silence that sounds like peace. I begin searching through my electronic library for my next read. There are plenty to choose from—51 to be exact—ranging from health and memoirs to biographies and romance.

I face my windows, which take up 75% of my walls and overlook the courtyard. Lights, both artificial and natural, are never shy; they shine boldly day and night, making sleep inconsequential to their brilliance. But this morning, that peace is shattered. A couple's quarreling rage barges in, intruding without apology on my tranquil rise.

I can hear their shouts in the midst of a heated argument. Though I don't understand the language they speak, the rage is clear. Lord have mercy, I think. It is only 8:50 a.m. and they are going at each other like rabid dogs. How can they allow their relationship to reach a place where, at the sun's first rise, they cannibalize each other this way? This is the sound of a dying relationship; nothing can survive in such ugliness.

It is truly sad. It seems they have both forgotten the beginning: why they got together and why they chose each other. Instead, they are consumed with finger-pointing, blaming, shaming, and demoralizing one another. The horrendous tones are hard to digest, and I am fast becoming distressed. It is too much for me to bear as an unwilling listener, imprisoned in those moments by my ability to hear.

The negative energy catapults me out of bed, desperate for distance. I pull up a Kirk Franklin playlist on YouTube and turn on the shower, blessedly drowning out the noise of a dying relationship.

Written by D.S.B.S.Rhapsodyphoenix © all Rights reserved