A man sits slumped on the stairs of a downtown building, Gauze taped to his forearms at four spots. Cigarette hanging from his lips, clutching the pack of Player's Light with his left hand – the flesh scarred and wrinkled. Track marks red as lipstick running in sporadic lines to the crook of his arm.
He stands up, looks around. Eyes glassy, confused. Red and irritated. He rubs at them. Rubs his arms, traces his bloated veins with a finger. Hunched over and swaying, he tries to walk down the stairs but he lurches instead. Too incapacitated to move, so he sits back down. Let's the smoke fall from his lips. Mouth agape, starting to drool.
And every person passing by stares as they walk. Nobody offering assistance.
He's a sight. He's a gimmick. Someone unfortunate to pit. Someone to compare and resolve their own failures. Because it could always be worse.
And no one lends a helping hand. We get on the bus and we're gone.
Bottom line: I'm just as bad.
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