Main Street?

An evening stroll down Erie's main strip at any part of the season is a practice in overcoming desolation, be it in the frigid winter where piles of snow impede the walkway; in the much-anticipated spring, where rain, wind and puddles chase would-be 'strollers' under awnings and in houses; in fall where the chilly wind hurts the nose and ears; and--as I experienced tonight--in the summer when nights turn into a depressing parade of society's outcast and mentally deranged.

Deciding to embark on such a journey at 8:00 pm down the heart of State Street leaves one with the feeling that the city itself, and a majority of the patrons seen, have passed their prime many years ago. In fact, I'm often left pondering if anything, ANYONE, in this city still lives, breathes and feels. The backdrop of another pastel sunset over the glinting waves of Erie Bay offers up a rather incongruent canvas upon which the night's actors and actresses waddle,wheel, and haphazardly stumble down the sidewalk.

Tonight there was the ancient woman with bowed-legs, rotten teeth and a sad countenance digging through the trash cans finding scraps of food, tin cans and attempting upon all hope to find a little change.

"Do you have a dollar for me to get home, son?"
"No," I replied. "Where do you live?"
"On the East Side," she answered. "What about 50 cents?"
"No. I'm sorry. I have nothing for you."

I left her behind as I attempted not to make eye-contact with her flinching face. Thank God she was hunched over, and her neck protruded in the opposite direction from gaze, so as to protect me from looking and seeing her painful condition more fully. Yet, I was sure she drug her feet continually down that sidewalk at a literal snail's pace stopping at each can to thoroughly inspect its contents. I heard a women yell from a moving car in the old woman's direction: "Stop digging in the trash you dirty hag!" I whipped my head around only quick enough to see the old woman acknowledge the barb, ignore it, and continue on down the street on her bowed knees.

Less than two blocks down the street, I became aware of a middle-aged man with sorrowful eyes and a worn countenance sitting listlessly in a wheelchair still adorned in his tattered military garb. I'm sure he was a left-over from the Vietnam era.  He made eye contact with me, and for a split second I wanted to look away, but I kept him in my sight--his eyes locked on mine--until I had walked enough to nearly go around the bend. Neither of us spoke to each other.

A little further on, I came across a local hangout for the white, suburban "Erieites"--those that don't actually live in the city center--known as The Plymouth. Many of the patrons were sitting on their iron rod tables and chairs, watching others pass by in complete stupor.


As we turned to make our way back to our apartment, Jamie and I were witness to wide-open roads, robotic stop lights and blowing plastic bags that were caught up on the telephone poles that lined the cracked sidewalk. We picked two up and dumped them in the trash, thus ending our evening stroll.