When the bus reached Powell, Gerald disembarked with the majority of the bus’s occupants. Despite the cold and rain, droves of tourists strolled the streets. Loud Celtic music emanated from a store of Irish souvenirs right behind the bus stop, men and women chattered noisily about where to go to next, but Gerald ignored the din and walked uphill. Rising steam from the manholes hit him full in the face with their stale odor, making him wince at the sour smell. Even after he passed it, he could shake the foul sensation from his nostrils, and determined that the city just generally stank once the masses of humanity grew closer together. Beggars sat on the wet sidewalk, holding cardboard signs that he refused to read or acknowledge, though Gerald noted with some distaste that many tourists dropped their change into the laps of those dregs of society. He quickly passed the designer outlets, trendy coffee shops, and exclusive boutiques to finally reach the only open square of real estate for blocks around. Droves of people crawled over this one city block, but Gerald hardly noticed them as he crossed the square to the little hot dog stand on the opposite corner from where he’d come. Despite the level of activity out here, only one employee managed the stand. She was a young girl, probably in her early twenties, looking bored and annoyed. Once in a while a tourist would walk up and ask her where this store or that store was located, and she plead ignorance even though said store stood only just across the street. Or, perhaps because it stood so close, she ignored its presence as assiduously as her questioners were oblivious to it. When the latest inquirer left to wander again aimlessly, Gerald stepped forward and asked for a hotdog.
“That’ll be $3.75,” she said, efficiently snatching up a sheet of waxed paper, placing the bun within it, and then selecting a suitable hotdog. He gave her his money, to which she replied, “$1.25 is your change,” handing him a well-worn dollar bill and sliding a single quarter from the small stacks of coins that lined the top of the stand’s chip display. Gerald pocketed the change and turned to the condiments, pouring ketchup over his lunch. The hot, savory food invigorated him, slowly restoring Gerald’s confidence in his ability to produce creative ad campaigns, and he thanked the hotdog girl warmly for her assistance, hardly noticing the frown she gave him at what she perceived to be very strange behavior.
Gerald finished his hotdog in four bites, and as he chewed, he pulled out a small notebook and pencil from the inside pocket of his coat. Gerald always kept a notebook in every jacket he owned, and when warmer weather came to the city (which it rarely did), he kept them in the back pockets of his pants. Before the feeling of euphoria and optimism gained from his small meal left him, Gerald quickly sketched an outline of stylized modern women gracefully holding bars of soap aloft as they exclaimed over the wonderfully natural smell and feel of
--------‘s Natural Herbal Soaps. Continuing an ambling walk deeper into the downtown area, Gerald failed to look up from his notebook, and so collided forcefully with a taxi that shot around the corner.
Pain exploded throughout his body, tearing his mind apart and robbing him of any other sensation except acute awareness of the pain. The first thing he felt again, aside from the pain, was cold rainwater dripping down his face, followed by warm trickles of blood. He could vaguely hear an angry voice screaming in his general direction, an edge of panic and hysteria coloring its vehemence. Gerald focused on that anger, and slowly drew himself back towards consciousness and away from passing out from the agony.
An irate taxi driver stood over him.
“What the hell’s the matter with you? You better not be dead, ‘cuz I ain’t going to jail just ‘cuz you’re stupid and walk out in front of cars.”
Gerald shook his head and immediately regretted it as bolts of lightening shot through his head, blurring his vision. The taxi driver reached down and pulled him to his feet, his grasp surprisingly timid and gentle despite the fury in his voice. Gerald wobbled slightly, but found his feet without too much effort. His vision would not clear completely, though, and he had to lean against the hood of the taxi in order to gather some composure.
Nervously, the taxi driver said, “Where do you live? I’ll take you home, free of charge. This never has to be mentioned to anyone.”
Not entirely in his right mind, Gerald nodded his assent and allowed the taxi driver to ease him into the backseat of the car. Somehow he managed to remember his address and give it to the driver, and within what seemed like mere moments, Gerald found himself standing outside his building again, the sound of squealing tires fading into the air. Putting an enormous effort into the task, Gerald unlocked the front door, pulled himself up the four flights of stairs, and finally made it back to his studio. He couldn’t bear to look at himself in the mirror, and instead ran a towel under warm water and held it to his aching head. Reluctant to bloody his furniture, he laid a blanket on the floor and lowered himself carefully onto it. The arrangement was not particularly comfortable, but he hardly noticed that through the throb of his head injury, promptly passing out from the pain and exhaustion.
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