Escape

The dry heat that had reigned over the city for months had given way to a steaming humidity as the previous night's rain evaporated from the streets. He sat in his car at the stoplight, and, delayed by the queue of rush hour vehicles in front of him, was fiddling with his iPod when a figure on the sidewalk caught the corner of his eye.

The man was working the horizontal grate of a metal-framed trash barrel; now he was deftly, expertly swinging it open and pulling it out to examine its contents. His face was not unattractive, and he was tall and gaunt, his matted dreadlocks spilling out over his shoulders like the mane of an underfed lion. Despite the heat, his clothing hung in layers of ragged folds down the length of his arms and legs, enveloping his body in its volumes. His movements were confident and directed as he swooped into the barrel, recovering a bag with a half-eaten sandwich and half-empty bottle of Coke, remnants of another's excesses.

As he sat there in his car, he felt a captive audience to this man's private moment, and a wave of empathy welled up from deep in his gut. He thought of the nights, years before, when he too had longed to escape the shackles of modern living. Unable to sleep, he had fled into the inhospitable urban wilderness, wandering in the cold until finally finding refuge under a fire escape, where looking up, the stars had appeared, dimly reaching out from the heavens, obscured by the glow of the city but dignified nonetheless.