The Walking Wounded

I spy her tall tottering form about a block ahead of me. Headed up 31^st, her flame-red stretch pants calling attention to her, she lumbers under multiple bags slung over her thin shoulders. Gym bags, large purses, plastic bags—they create a precarious balance as she weaves, just slightly, up the sidewalk, sometimes veering into the street. Her grey hoodie covers her head, so I can’t be sure it’s the same woman. The one who periodically slams down my street, yelling profanities at some imaginary demon.

            The Walking Wounded as Owen Hill calls them.

            She’s one of them. And today, as I try not to catch up to her---I don’t want to engage; she scares me—I wonder where she’s headed. Or if she even has a destination. I remember talking to one of my neighbors on my block a few years ago. I can’t remember who it was. But they said she lived around here. That she had some mental issues.

            Duh. Anyone who runs up the street yelling at no one has some mental issues. Schizophrenia? Don’t schizophrenics see and hear imaginary adversaries?

            I can’t imagine how scary that must be. To have that going on in your brain.

            But this morning, she seems calm, albeit ready to fall down. I wonder if she’s drunk. Or if she’s not slept all night. Or, maybe she’s canvasing the recycling bins for recyclables, though I don’t note her stopping to check the large blue cans. Sometimes she weaves into a driveway and disappears for a moment. I think that must be where she lives. But then she reappears, weaving down the drive out into the street, her bags weighing her down, her gait slow and wobbly.

            I turn up another block before I come upon to her. Again, I don’t want to engage. We almost cross paths at the corner of 31^st and Esmond, but she doesn’t see me. I’m thankful for this.

            Yet another part of me feels so sorry for her. It’s a crime this country, that is so wealthy, lets its mentally ill wander the streets. Again, the feeling of helplessness. What can I do? And now, during this coronavirus crisis, what will happen to people like her? I worry about them. The homeless encampments in Oakland, San Francisco, Richmond, they are a breeding ground for a horrific crisis of sickness and death.

            Something needs to be done. But what? Mayor London Breed of San Francisco spoke about putting all the homeless up in hotel rooms, but then there were issues with this, of course. So then she? (I’m not sure who) just allowed the homeless to set up more tents. At least this way they were contained.

            Contained for what? A major humanitarian crisis that the Bay Area, in all of her riches, can’t forestall let alone solve.

            This virus is here now. It doesn’t seem to be going away. And for this woman, Miss Red Pants, what will become of her?

            I only hope she has someplace to go. That my neighbor is right. She lives around here.

            I turn a corner and there she is, tottering toward me.

            Yet again, she doesn’t notice me. She’s got the weight of the world on her shoulders. And that takes all of her strength.