There was a woman in my old neighborhood. And you know how people start to look like their pets?
Actually, scratch that. There were a whole bunch of people in my old neighborhood.
And it’s cliché, but it’s true.
You bike to work every day for like four years. And it’s just a 10 minute bike ride, but everyone has a routine. They walk the dog every morning and stop at the bakery for a croissant. They get on their bike after a night at the bar and wobbly ride home. They have their living room on the street side and you can look in on their daily life as you bike past. They stand at the bus stop with their kids and wave as you go by.
In fact, you join them, become part of the local fauna – the creepy guy on the trashy bike with the big yellow saddle bags who’s always staring at everyone.
And it’s all like Sesame Street in your mind and it never changes.
When I got here I wanted to make up stories about all of these people I saw. And then I wanted to go and introduce myself to each one and find out the real deal and then write about that.
I never did that.
But there’s one person I still think about. The little old lady with the brittle dog on plinky glass legs.