What I See

You humans see nothing of the true world. To you, there is a small bubble around you, and the rest of the universe is just backstory. What happens on the street is only happenings, unless it happens to you. I have no life of my own, and therefore, do not have this problem.

But you also have something I do not. You can feel. You can sympathize with others. I watch people’s emotions spilling over the top, destroying and rebuilding them, every day. I wish that I could feel their dreams the way that you do. But alas… non-sentient life must continue.

Today, on the streets of Chicago, it is a busy day. Trucks and men and women in hard hats rush past, trying to finish their new project on the next street. They all look tense, like they are waiting to be apprehended by nosy passersby. One woman drives past on her forklift, carrying a large bundle of red bricks. She looks as if she's about to cry, and I don’t have to wait long to find out why. There is a car that has ignored the sign asking for no thru traffic. The red sedan follows so closely behind her that if she were to stop abruptly, the car would rear end her, and both vehicles would be ruined. She knows this, and clearly, so does the driver. He is red faced, leaning out the window and shouting at her to move faster. To leave the street alone.

He seems to be on a schedule. He checks his watch every few seconds and then shouts at the lady some more. He doesn’t understand why she can’t try to be more courteous to people who need to be somewhere.

Other cars start to flood the street, but these turn into the parking lot at my helm. Churchgoers, who rent out my building every Sunday until they can afford something more permanent. The earliest comers help set up the rows of chairs and the coffee bar. They erect the NY Presbyterian Church for the Deaf banner at the door, laughing at the racket of the work machines on the next block. More people enter in a steady stream and chat merrily. They, unlike the man in the red sedan, do not mind the workers helping to build another school. They are thankful.

Down on the pavement, a short person in a hoodie runs across the street, head down. They start a dumpster fire with the lighter in their pocket and flip the can, momentarily slowing down the police chasing them on foot. The chase, however, still continues, and the person is caught. The police take from their pockets an array of food that must’ve been stolen. The person must’ve upset three food vendors in a matter of minutes to collect this selfish horde.

Meanwhile, they start to cry into their lap, thinking about the family at home who can’t find work because they do not speak English, and who are starving. Stealing is the only way they can survive, because the government doesn’t provide enough aid. The police haul them away.

The man in the red sedan speeds up, the forklift finally out of his way, and almost hits a little girl coming out of her apartment. She shrieks and dives back into the shadows of the apartment complex, narrowly missing the car.

“Look where you’re going!” says the man, nostrils flaring with annoyance. He cannot be late for work again or he will lose his job.

Dusty, rusty, muddy pickup trucks roll into the parking lot across from mine and their drivers start to unload tents and pastries from everywhere other than the front seat. The Farmers’ Market. They post signs in front of their makeshift shops, and wait for the first customers. The street becomes busier with people coming to buy fresh produce and old-fashioned sweets. There isn’t as much activity because of the construction, but a healthy-sized crowd swarms the tents. They all look very happy with their purchases. One lady sternly lectures a young man selling carrots on how to better sort his stock. Despite the insult to his intelligence, he is patient with the lady and waits for her to go bother someone else.

In my building, the church sermon ends, and people fan out into the parking lot. Some get in their cars and drive away, but most notice the Farmers’ Market and delighted grins spread across their faces. They integrate into the swarms and buy the produce, nearly selling out the shops.

The early afternoon sunlight starts to shine, and the tent-keepers pack up what is left of their things and leave. There are many hugs and promises to bring larger stock next time, and they depart.

The street is now empty, and the sun turns darker and darker. The construction trucks retreat from the area, exhausted, yet happy with their work, and glad of the lack of people to judge them and their large equipment. They congratulate each other on their progress and return to their families.

The lights of the surrounding buildings blink out, one by one. The street gets dark, and the cicadas chirp loudly.

The day ended well on my street. I do not know what it is to have feelings, but humans have many of them. You can hurt, and you can hurt others, but more than that, you can communicate. You can laugh at each other's jokes; you can lift each other up when you are having a bad day. You would be the envy of the inanimate world, if we could feel. Although there is so much hurt that you cause to those around you, and you are so self-centered, you are still the smartest beings. You know that you must stick together and develop a community. Because that is how you keep your ego in control. Caring about others is both your epically failed path of evolution, and the only thing that keeps you alive and happy and thriving.