After returning to work and jolting in and out of consciousness with the help of coffee and espresso shots, I was quite pleased to receive my pay cheque. I immediately imagined all the things this money would do: Provide me groceries, be put into my tuition savings, twenty dollars to my retirement savings plan (lame, perhaps, but we’ll see who’s laughing at age 65). Maybe I’d even purchase some quality running shorts? I announced my swift departure to my fellow cubicle workers and departed the tenth floor, walking briskly towards the shopping centre and onto the bank. Oh, how wonderful it is to put a pay cheque into the bank.
As I exited the shopping centre, there was only one more street to cross before I arrived at the bank. My right hand was fidgeting and shaking (perhaps from the coffee, perhaps from the excitement). Were it not for the slight delay of traffic, and the imposed wait by the orange stop hand on the other side of the street, I would not have noticed the story unfolding beside me.
Immediately, I noticed the yellow police tape surrounding the underground walkway towards the conference centre. My eyes went a little further left and I saw police cars, and officers speaking with men carrying notepads and cameras. While I tried to recall if I’d heard anything in the news, I heard it.
“I don’t know what to say. He was great, we’ll miss him.” A young man with eyes made a piercing green by his tears spoke softly. A young lady with silver ball piercing around her face leaned into his shoulder, not crying, but looking both confused and concerned. I turned around and was met by a large camera being carried by a CBC reporter. He too had a somber expression on his face as he clearly tried to understand the situation without inflicting more pain on the obviously grieving group of people sitting on the sidewalk.
The neon white figure appeared on the opposite side of the street and so I walked across to deposit my pay cheque. I looked back at the taped off area once more to try and guess what happened. I don’t remember depositing my cheque, gathering my receipt, and replacing my bankcard into my wallet. I walked back across the street and met eyes with the young man. They were half filled with tears, though none dripped down his cheeks. He challenged me with his gaze. I offered what I thought was a compassionate half smile and continued into the shopping centre, up the escalator, out and back up to cubicle land. I didn’t think about what new running shorts I’d buy.
This morning’s papers told of a street kid who’s been hacked to death. That same young man I’d seen was on the cover of the Metro paper. He had been with his friend sleeping in the underpass, as they often did. A drunk wandered in, an altercation began and his friend fought back sloppily before a blade was pulled across his neck, and stabbed into his chest cavity, neck and face.
I don’t know what the lesson is supposed to be to this story. But I know I feel sullen. I feel like my bills and debts and finances are trivial while the rest of my body aches for this loss. I’m surprised I don’t feel bad in a “that’s awful, but glad it wasn’t me” kind of way. The way I typically feel when reading about murders in the paper. I don’t know what I hope the conclusion to this story is. But I know I will hug everyone closer today and even close my eyes when I do it, because I am certainly glad I have love in my life today.