Observations of a Beacon Hill afternoon
Oct. 27th, 2004 01:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kitchen_kinkI'm walking towards the English department and then my classes at Such-and-Such University, wearing the regulation dress khakis, white French-cuff blouse, and black blazer of Beacon Hill workaday denizens. Walk up the short hill of Park Street toward the autumnally-glittering dome of the State House, where, once I'm in proximity, I hear a familiar sound: the adenoidally coarse voice of a particular, clearly mentally ill homeless man comically growling his usual refrain: "Can anyone spaaarre any chaaange?"
I've seen this guy before, but not in a long while. Generally I used to run into him trolling the Common down by Emerson, around Tremont Street. His request is always the same, and is simultaneously friendly and threatening in its loud insistance. You can hear him all the way down the street, long before you see his listing walk, his spasmodically outstretched hand, his bearded, blank face.
Today he's standing right in front of that glittering dome, and as I watch, a tall, trim, young security type with a hat like a forest ranger comes up behind him, a billy club in one hand.
"You cannot stand in front of the State House soliciting donations," he says to the man.
"Could you spaarre any chaaange?" the man responds, his hand stretched wildly to the side and upwards, as if he hopes the change will fall from the sky.
"You cannot stand in front of the State House solicting donations," the uniform repeats, as if echoing the man's disorder.
The man turns around toward the general throng. "Can anyone spare some change?"
"Sir," the uniform is close to yelling now, "you cannot stand in front of the state house soliciting donations! Move along, please."
The man turns, coming to himself a little. "I'll go across the street," he says, sounding like a stalled Muppet. And he starts to move.
"Keep going. On down the hill," the guard says. The man limps away, arms doing their own thing independent of his body. The guard stands there a moment, looking after him. I think of asking him, "Excuse me, but what law is it you're enforcing exactly?" But in my hurry, and usual cowardice of authority, I don't.
***
In the elevator, crowded and ascending to the eleventh floor of the classroom building at Such-and-such, I crowd back as an older man, portly and wearing a hearing aid, enters at the eighth. The doors close and we continue upwards, at which point the man turns and says, "Oh, we're going up?"
"Afraid so," I say.
"Do you suppose it will go down again?"
"Well...it has to eventually. We're going to the eleventh floor."
"Really!" he says, his interest perking. "What happens there?"
"Um. On the eleventh floor?"
"Yes. What do you do there?"
"I have classes there."
"Oh!" he says, brightening even more. "You go to classes here?"
"Well," I say, "I teach here."
"Ah," he says, deflating a little. "I teach here, too. And I didn't think people went to classes here."
"That's basically true," I say, and exit to the teeming hallway.
I've seen this guy before, but not in a long while. Generally I used to run into him trolling the Common down by Emerson, around Tremont Street. His request is always the same, and is simultaneously friendly and threatening in its loud insistance. You can hear him all the way down the street, long before you see his listing walk, his spasmodically outstretched hand, his bearded, blank face.
Today he's standing right in front of that glittering dome, and as I watch, a tall, trim, young security type with a hat like a forest ranger comes up behind him, a billy club in one hand.
"You cannot stand in front of the State House soliciting donations," he says to the man.
"Could you spaarre any chaaange?" the man responds, his hand stretched wildly to the side and upwards, as if he hopes the change will fall from the sky.
"You cannot stand in front of the State House solicting donations," the uniform repeats, as if echoing the man's disorder.
The man turns around toward the general throng. "Can anyone spare some change?"
"Sir," the uniform is close to yelling now, "you cannot stand in front of the state house soliciting donations! Move along, please."
The man turns, coming to himself a little. "I'll go across the street," he says, sounding like a stalled Muppet. And he starts to move.
"Keep going. On down the hill," the guard says. The man limps away, arms doing their own thing independent of his body. The guard stands there a moment, looking after him. I think of asking him, "Excuse me, but what law is it you're enforcing exactly?" But in my hurry, and usual cowardice of authority, I don't.
***
In the elevator, crowded and ascending to the eleventh floor of the classroom building at Such-and-such, I crowd back as an older man, portly and wearing a hearing aid, enters at the eighth. The doors close and we continue upwards, at which point the man turns and says, "Oh, we're going up?"
"Afraid so," I say.
"Do you suppose it will go down again?"
"Well...it has to eventually. We're going to the eleventh floor."
"Really!" he says, his interest perking. "What happens there?"
"Um. On the eleventh floor?"
"Yes. What do you do there?"
"I have classes there."
"Oh!" he says, brightening even more. "You go to classes here?"
"Well," I say, "I teach here."
"Ah," he says, deflating a little. "I teach here, too. And I didn't think people went to classes here."
"That's basically true," I say, and exit to the teeming hallway.
