All The World is a Stage...

I swear it is the longest holding traffic light in town.  I sit there every morning in the left-hand turning lane peeking past the bottom of my sun visor waiting anxiously for the green arrow to light up, pointing me on my way past the two bearded, bedraggled men who stand in the median with cardboard signs that read, "Homeless.  Anything Helps". As the car-dwellers sit captive,  the men walk up and down their yellow trimmed concrete platform, holding their signs in front of their chests. A cigarette dangles loosely from the lips of one of them as he grins and waves at us, hoping one of us will call him over  and give him the change we have left over from our morning coffee stops.

The men do not bother to avert their eyes. They look directly at us, their pupils boring into ours, so if we don't want to feel the discomfort of their gaze, we must determinedly look away. How is it that his stare makes us feel ashamed? And how much does a pack of cigarettes cost? Did someone give him that at the light?  Would he use my change to buy more smokes? Did it matter?

As the guy in the Carhardt jacket with a neatly trimmed goatee makes his way towards my car, I stare even more intently straight ahead at the light, my eyes stinging from the sun. In that moment, I'd rather go blind than look him in the eye, not because he's a homeless man, but because I wonder about his honesty. I doubt that he really is what he says he is.

"What is this con they've got going anyway?" I ask myself, as I reach to turn up my radio.  I can see him out the corner of my eye, standing across from my window, pointing at his sign, but I refuse to turn my head and acknowledge him.  As the light turns, I hear him holler out to the man who is strutting the yellow-painted stage along the opposite side of the intersection but I can't make out what he's saying.  I wonder if they're about to huddle and rethink their strategy.

By the time I made it in to work I had forgotten them.  I parked my car in its usual spot and took a moment to breathe deeply before I shut off the engine and gathered my things to walk inside.  Already my feet hurt as I took the first few steps through the parking lot towards the door.  Why did I wear these heels every day despite the fact that they hurt my feet so badly.  I remembered reading about women who have to get knee replacements later in life because of wearing high heels, but I thought to myself, "it's probably worth it."

I got to my desk just before my boss walked in the door.  Good thing she was running a little late.  As I sat down and turned on my computer I felt the ease and joy of the weekend melt away and let the stress of Monday take up the space where my peace should reside. I told myself I was there to make a difference in the world--to reach out to someone who needed a helping hand, but deep down, I knew that if I had no paycheck to look forward to at the end of the week, I wouldn't have been there.

My heart was still at home, watching my son play with blocks on the living room floor.  My mind was still being pulled back into the movies I watched on Saturday night, to the longing for companionship that overtook me on Sunday morning when I woke up in bed alone. Instead of the cute dress and uncomfortable shoes that defined my style when I was at work, I longed to be back in my causal duds again, wearing sneakers and a ponytail, or a t-shirt and pajamas.

"How was your weekend?"  I looked up to see my friend standing in the doorway of my office.
"It was great!" I said. "How was yours?"
I pretended to listen to her go on and on about her boyfriend and the fight they had as I scanned my emails and checked my schedule for the day.
"Sounds like you had an eventful few days" I finally said back when she paused.
"So what did you do?" She asked me.
"Oh, not much." I said. "Watched some movies. Played with my son."
"That's nice." She grinned. "You're such a great mom! I don't know anyone else who spends time with their kid like you do."
"I try." I said with a sigh.
"I'll see you at lunch time." She said, assuming I was up for a long lunch on a Monday.
"Yeah, let me know when you're going." I answered. "I'm not sure if I'll have time to get out, but I'd like to."

Off she went, bouncing down the hall with all the joy of youth and new love as I sighed again and sunk deeper into my chair.  I suddenly felt heavy enough to break through the floor.  I thought for a brief moment about how surprised the chap downstairs would be if I came crashing through the ceiling onto his desk at 9:00 a.m. on a Monday morning.

My phone rang at 9:03 and I quickly summoned my cheery voice before I picked up the receiver.
"Good morning, Rachel speaking," I said as cheerfully as I could muster.  No matter though, it was a client who was unhappy and his call started a marathon of a day with me having to, as pleasantly as possible, smooth ruffled feathers and make amends for our break down of customer service over the weekend. It was exhausting pretending to care so much about other people's problems when I had my own with which to contend.

I missed lunch with my friend; opting instead to eat the frozen boxed concoction of rice and some spongy substance that was supposed to be chicken at my desk while I returned emails and scanned the internet for a different job.

At the end of the day, all crises averted and hurt feelings soothed, I packed up my things, slipped my feet back into my uncomfortable shoes and headed out the door.  I took a couple of chocolates from the receptionist's candy dish when no one was looking.  Calories don't count if no one sees you eating them, right?

I tromped my way back to my car, wondering why I always chose to park so far from the front door. There was an evening chill working its way into the autumn air as a few dry leaves blew across the parking lot at my feet and I felt that old familiar longing for all things home and comfort sweep over me as I reached for the car door.

The heat of an almost-still-summer day embraced me as I settled in behind the wheel and fumbled with my keys.  The car faithfully hummed to a roar as I quickly reached to turn off the heat.  In favor of the little bite of cold in the air, I rolled my window down as I pulled out of the parking lot and joined the madness of rush hour, making my way back home.

Again at the light, the men were there.  They had traded places since morning, and the man with the goatee was once again standing in the median. He had no cigarette dangling from his lips that time, and for a brief moment, I looked away from the light long enough to examine him a little more closely.  He wore work boots, ragged blue jeans and an old baseball cap.  He spoke to people in the cars ahead of me.  He was smiling, jovial, graceful even as he thanked them for their kindness and put the change they gave him into his right coat pocket.  As he got closer to my door, I wanted to look away, but I made myself keep my eyes firmly focused on him.  Truth was, he reminded me of myself somehow, standing there with that fake smile plastered on his face.

Quickly, I reached for my purse and rummaged for the five dollar bill I hadn't spent for lunch.  I held it out to him and smiled as he spotted my arm waving wildly from my window and made his way over to where I sat.  "Thank you, m'am," he said humbly.  "Every little bit helps."

"You're welcome," I replied. As the light turned green, pointing me once again, back to where I belonged, I wondered where the goateed man went at the end of the day when his act was done.