Transitory

The other day, I was waiting for the bus in the International District, after going to Uwajimaya. As I was standing by the stop, about twenty feet away from me, a homeless man began to throw his belongings across a small grey cement wall, separating the sidewalk from a parking lot. After he had shifted all (or at least all that I could see) of his belongings, he followed them over the wall, and began to talk very loudly and semi-coherently, gesticulating wildly in concert. Among his belongings that he had thrown over the wall were two small, thin aluminum bookends and a book. He picked up all three, and after walking over to the garbage can next to the bus shelter, slammed the bookends down side by side and slid the book between them, pushing them towards one another so as to assure the book's snugness. His work down, he then picked up his belongings and walked across the street to Union Station, still yelling and gesticulating, and sat down by the doors.

I stood at the bus stop for another five minutes, staring at the book. It was an ancient hardback, bound with some sort of faded grey tweed-ish substance and tattering at all its edges. I had an intense, burning desire to walk over and see what book it was that the man had placed so forcefully on the trashcan. However, as he was sitting across the street, and as I had no idea what kind of reaction it would provoke, I decided against it, and settled with just staring at it until the bus arrived. I still want to know what that book was. It's starting to drive me fucking nuts.