"Sir . . . sir."
Need has a tone of voice that's hard to ignore, as badly as I might want to. It pierced my purposeful hurry this night. I had stopped at the store after work and was carrying two plastic bags of groceries - milk, OJ, cottage cheese - which were cutting into my hands. My briefcase was slung awkwardly over my shoulder and I felt tired, stressed, put upon.
Words can hardly convey how little I wanted to turn around just then and find out who was summoning me.
I live in Chicago, a city with lots of dark corners, a city of want spilling up from the margins. The want is perpetual, as much a part of the cityscape as Lake Michigan - always there, sometimes roiled up, sometimes dangerous. I resist it with a weary heart, having no clue what my relationship to it ought to be.
I turned around. A woman was standing in front of an apartment building about half a block behind me. I walked back to her, lugging my groceries and briefcase. She was skinny, scrawny, with a scraped-raw look to her face and terror in her eyes, which instantly made me forget about the weight of my own life.