Two Blocks

I was walking to my local Oregon Homeless Age (OHA) joint on a sunny weekday afternoon. I like observing a certain female bartender there when she interacts with the various homeless men and women who enter the joint and utilize it as a kind of service center. This happens almost every five to ten minutes of her shift. She is very kind yet strict with them.

Nothing much was on my mind. I carried a notebook to jot down some musings but not my phone. I never carry a phone while I am walking or riding my bicycle anymore. I want no distractions. I don’t want to enrich a tech colossus while walking or bicycling or doing anything for recreation.

As I walked the last two blocks to the joint, I observed:

A young woman sitting at a bus stop. On her phone.

A mother pushing a baby stroller with two kids behind, talking to her. The mom was on her phone.

An employee of a hippie sock factory taking a break from work. On her phone.

A high school kid walked past me. On his phone.

Three high school girls bicycled by. Two were on their phones.

A construction worker was on a break. On his phone.

An employee of Mexican restaurant stood behind the counter. On her phone.

I approached the entrance to the joint. I saw an opened and empty box of Narcan Spray resting on a picnic table. I bet the joint stocks up on the product and doles it out when necessary.

It was dark inside. Two people sat at the bar. Both on their phones.

As I said, all of this in two blocks.

I ordered a beer and took it to my usual table. I started writing about someone who had recently disappeared on me. It’s a strange feeling to write about someone disappearing on you when you didn’t do anything to provoke the disappearance.

All these tools of immediate communication and we communicate so poorly with them, or, not at all.