It’s been cold on the central coast of California this fall. A couple of days ago I was riding the horse (my bicycle, my only form of transportation) to a market a couple of miles away at 7.30 am. It was 32°, the sunlight reddish (‘Red sky in the morning, sailor take warning’) in a cloudless sky with a breeze coming in from the ocean. I was wearing my winter riding clothes. Those and the physical exertion of controlling the machine kept me perfectly warm.
Others weren't so fortunate. Crossing a bridge to the small downtown business district, I saw bodies in sleeping bags along the base of the rails. More figures were seated together on low concrete walls topping the banks of what passed for a river after years of drought, only occasionally moving. I stopped at a light, breath pluming in the air. Two men, in their twenties, I think, began crossing the street. They didn't seem to notice the signal was against them. Both wore three or four layers of clothes, a mishmash of colors and fabrics faded and tattered and not looking nearly warm enough. Baseball caps pulled low against the breeze, they stared straight ahead, their strides unsteady and stiff. The one nearest me was muttering under his breath. The other appeared stunned by the cold, his face slack and expressionless. As they passed I heard what the one nearest was saying.
"We're not going to die today. We're not going to die, homie." He shook his companion by the shoulder. "You hear me?" When he didn't get an answer, he shook him again. "You hear me?" As if the words had somehow been pulled out of him, the other said,"We're not going to die." The one nearest said, "That's right." They reached the far sidewalk and kept going.
And so did I.
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