And God Said: Here's a Kitten

I need to drop off some books at the library after work, which means a short walk south from the museum -- so rather than retracing my steps back up through Chinatown to my usual bus stop, I decide to head directly east on Dearborn and catch the #7 on Rainier.

I’m walking through a dreary drizzle that’s not quite worth opening my umbrella for, between steep banks that rise higher as I approach the freeway overpass. A muddy trail at the top of the north slope leads to the little strip of green space I can see from my office window, where people often camp. At the bottom of the slope, a pile of trash and split-open garbage bags makes me wonder if there’s been what the city calls “a sweep” -- but then I walk past a row of tents still pitched along the sidewalk, so I guess not -- or not recently, anyway. An open flap of tarp reveals a glimpse of pallet-frame walls, low bookshelves, a small rug. A little further on a couple sits chatting on a small lavender couch; we exchange “good evenings” as I walk by.

Across Dearborn to the south is the concrete spaghetti tangle of the I-90/I-5 interchange, which shelters a muddy patchwork of hills and vales, dotted with tents, tarps, mattresses, furniture, and trash. A man in a long dark overcoat is crossing the street with a dog trotting behind him. There are no crosswalks along this stretch -- so the guy is balanced on a bit of curb in the median strip, waiting for a pause in the traffic. He turns to look back at a group of men who are shouting at him from up on the embankment. I can’t hear their words, but the tone is something like, “Don’t forget to pick up some milk!”

I pass another semi-contained pile of garbage -- pieces of broken wheelchair, upended yogurt containers, ripped backpacks, grey Union Gospel blankets -- that seems to mark the end of this heavily populated stretch of concrete wilderness. The oceanic roar of the overpass recedes; the cold drizzle returns. This time I pull out the umbrella.

When I get to Rainier, I discover that the bus stop I was aiming for is gone. Well, I’ll keep walking south to the next one. I’m moving almost as fast as the SUVs and Priuses crawling through rush hour, anyway. But then -- oops! -- there goes the bus, passing me by just before I reach the chilly curbside stop at Charles Street. I decide not to wait for the next one here -- there’s a roomier stop under I-90, out of the wind, maybe a half-mile further on.

I don't know who placed the crosswalk where Rainier's right lane feeds onto I-90 East, but I do know that person was no pedestrian. I stand there for several minutes as cars and trucks whip around a blind corner and barrel past me to the onramp. I see another clutch of tents huddled under some trees next to the freeway up ahead, and wonder many people have been hit while trying to get back to their tent with a sixpack of beer. Finally someone slows down. I hesitate just a bit -- the Lexus behind them is still coming fast -- then make a run for it.

As I approach the bus stop at the overpass, a couple of guys jog down the stairs from the upper level, where the buses on I-90 carry tech workers to and from the East Side. I realize, drawing closer, that an anguished wail is echoing through the cavernous space. I look up at the maze of wheelchair ramps and staircases winding their way through a terraced slope. The whole place is packed with tents. Somewhere up there a man is screaming, “Shut up! Shut up! I don’t give a fuck! Shut up!” I think I can see him, pacing in and out of sight behind a tent, twenty feet above the sidewalk. I can’t see who he’s yelling at; it may well be himself, or the universe. It’s an understandable urge: I can only imagine the grief and grievances involved in whatever circumstances have brought him here. “I don’t give a fuck! Shut up! Shut uhhhhhhhhp!”

It’s a devastating, heart-wrenching, stomach-clenching sound. I consider going up there to ask if he’s okay -- Jesus, could there be a more ludicrous question? -- or, rather, if he needs some help. But even if he calms down enough to say yes, what on earth can I do for him? Sit and listen to his story? Give him five dollars? Call him an ambulance? I’ve learned through sorrowful experience that he almost certainly won’t get the care he needs from the system we’ve got.

Besides, I’m trying to get home to dinner with my kid. I can’t go up there right now. I can’t. I don’t.

I think of the photo I saw today of the iconic bronze Charging Bull of Wall Street, facing off against a new statue: a defiant little girl. She’s been installed by an investment management company as a way to pressure corporations to put more women on their boards, a goal that strikes me as distressingly narrow. I suppose female leadership can be revolutionary in many contexts, but I suspect, judging from the look on her face, that this little girl has bigger fish to fry than the effort to lift already-powerful women even closer to the top of the heap.

Fearless Girl by Kristen Visbal, Charging Bull by Arturo Di Modica

Photo: Federica Valabrega

Deciding I can’t wait here after all, I take a moment to hope that the Fearless Girl has arrived on Wall Street to stop shameless greed in its tracks and channel the forces of market capitalism into the service of all humanity. Under her tutelage, I’m pretty sure the sidewalks and freeways of one of our wealthiest cities will not serve as winter shelters for hundreds of human beings.

That day has not yet come, alas. I keep walking, feeling defeated, and the wailing fades into the distance.

Yet another bus stop lies ahead, and this time the bus is in view, just a few blocks behind me. I pick up my pace so I’ll get there first -- and suddenly, the sun comes out. Out of habit, I turn to look at the spot to the east where a rainbow should be, and indeed, there it is. Short and faint at first, but growing. By the time I reach the bus stop and start digging in my bag for my wallet, it stretches from horizon to horizon, all seven vivid hues aglow.

I know this vibrant arc is the entirely predictable meteorological result of late-afternoon sunlight refracted by airborne drops of H20. Still, it’s hard not to see it as a divine message -- laughably tone-deaf, in this case. “I don’t know what you were going for, exactly,” I mutter to no one in particular, “but if it’s some kind of ‘Wonderful World’ epiphany, you sure missed your mark.” Even if I were in the market for hackneyed signs of hope, 5000 years of cultural legacy tells me this Rainbow Sign has an edge: “You have another chance!" it says. "But don’t ever forget that I have the power to wipe out every creature that walks or crawls upon the surface of the earth -- yes, even the women sitting on corporate boards. So get your shit together, people.”

Honestly, though, this rainbow felt more sheepish than righteous. More like: “Yeah, it sucks that so many people are living out here in the rain -- in fact, there’s a ton of things that fucking suck right now. And there’s basically squat you or I or anyone can do about that, except to treat our fellow travelers with compassion while we plug away at the systemic changes that need to be made -- but frankly those systemic battles are tilting more and more uphill, to the point where we're all clinging to bare roots sticking out of a crumbling cliff wall -- and on second thought you don’t want to think too hard about any of that -- probably shouldn’t have brought it up. Look, I’m sorry -- here’s a picture of a kitten.”

It's not until the next day that I remember the "Louie" episode where Louis CK finds out his thirteen-year-old daughter has been smoking pot, and the whole chasm of scary uncontrollable adolescent risk-taking yawns open before him, along with memories of the pain and isolation of his own reckless youth. And somehow, instead of yelling or lecturing or offering sage advice or cautionary tales, he just looks at her and says, “I love you. I’m here. That’s all I got.”

Which is certainly a useful mantra for any parent of a Fearless Girl.

I suppose, if I were the kind of person who believed in the kind of God who communicates in plain English -- or by strewing colored lights across the sky -- this is also pretty much the only message that would have made any sense to me at all on that grim afternoon. If that's what that rainbow was meant to convey -- well, I sure hope the wailing guy got a glimpse of it. It seems just possible that from his vantage point at the southern edge of the overpass, high on the east-facing slope, he might have had a view of just the right slice of sky.