I look for the dark mass of his shape—sometimes it feels that he’s really the only one on the street—even though today we had the first warm afternoon, probably 75, so that by the time I headed out, at 7, it was still t-shirt weather. But Doug is unchanging—that same heavy parka coat, hood up, the same dark trousers and unidentifiable shoes (bags over them when it’s wet)—it’s basically his house, transported like a carapace, along with the cart (now from Safeway—what happened top the old Flexi-Flyer wagon?)—but this must be more practical. If that’s the word.
He’s always there, so dependable that I know by heart where to look. Somewhere on the north side of Solano, near the Albany Key Route strip, often sitting on a low bench provided by the city—as if made for him—and they do seem to let him be, or at least I never see police action the way it used to happen in Berkeley, when one of the neighbors took it into his head to complain. After all, these properties are expensive. All that’s been jostled now—just how much so it’s hard to say. There will be some feinting and pretending—adamant open-house signs on Sundays, pulled from the trunks of a nondescript late-model cars, propped up near the appropriate intersection corners. But I have a hunch that doubt may have set in—they’re saying till 2022, the first useful vaccine—which could have been developed long since, but such programs are a drain on the economy—or maybe they simply represent the hopes of the Obama years. He was back today, President Obama, his hair more gray in the photograph, his face more drawn—how must he feel, after all, to have given so much—all he could—and then this new, ungrateful time…
Late evening, yesterday or the day before—Doug making his way up the north side of the street, pushing his cart—I’m imagining he didn’t want to leave it down below—he's now about to the block of the CVS. I’ve crossed the street ahead of him, but as I glance over my shoulder, I see that he’s parked the cart ythere in the dark alcove of the old Britt-Marie’s, and is heading across the street as well, with plans to enter the store.
He was standing there, one night last month, in front of the refrigerated cold cases—looking back and forth, making a survey of their contents.The clerk, barely any English, looking uneasy. Well, it’s Doug—he is a presence. And I have no idea where the money comes from.
But he's always working--making something—the wire forms he bales together with clippers and pliers. This evening’s was approaching seven feet—a tall mesh column, slightly misshapen—I couldn’t see it that clearly from across the way. But I made note—I always do—of where he’s taking his gift…
Other end of the avenue, also today—a small soda-bottle pin-wheel, attached to the top of a metal newspaper rack. Round and round in the wind. Also Doug…
