Moments on a sidewalk

Fun Fact: I, like many elitist Washington insiders, ride my bike to and from work. It's an inexpensive, healthy way to cultivate a sense of moral superiority.

Joking aside, biking also provides a unique view of the city. I see things on my bike that I would probably miss otherwise, especially if I took to the Metro tunnels every morning and evening. Take for example, this afternoon. I was riding past Erin's (for those of you not in the know, the charming, talented, beautiful girl who regularly tolerates my presence) apartment building in a relatively up-scale neighborhood in Northwest DC, when I had to pause to investigate an odd sight.

On the sidewalk in front of the building was an unkempt heap of stuff, everything from furniture to clothing to books, stretching for about 100 feet. An equally eclectic group of people, from a new father pushing a three-wheeled jogging stroller to a quietly mumbling homeless woman, was sifting through the odd assortment. I leaned my bike against a parking meter and joined them.

It only took a few moments' investigation for the scattered belongings to start to gel into a story. Moth-eaten women's clothing peeked out from decaying laundromat bags. A dozen fading hardcover books lay in a pile, dull letters on their cracking spines advertising land use law and Ohio history. A bedside commode hovered over the pile, an unlikely monument to persevering independence.

The new father had paused alongside me, his passenger dozing in her urban chariot. "Wonder what happened," he said. "Looks like someone was evicted."

"Don't know. Looks like old folks' stuff to me," I responded, not lifting my eyes from the pile.

"Here today, gone tomorrow" new-dad responded.

I couldn't help a wry smile from coming onto my face "It'll be our stuff someday, eh?"

He grinned back "Yep. We're next!"

As new-dad and his charge rolled off, I bent down to shuffle a pile of envelopes at the edge of the detritus. I was surprised to see the collected personal documents of a long life: bank statements, utility bills, AARP renewal notices. I noticed the familiar TIAA-CREF logo on one letter. The bold print, weathered with time, revealed a plan set up for retirement at the age of 65, in 1986. The same year I was born. I was reminded of the account I opened with the same financial service just a few months ago.

I looked away from the heap, suddenly uncomfortable standing there. I watched new-dad's back as it receded into the distance, and was struck by the poignance of the moment, the ghosts and promises of four generations of strangers tied together for a few brief minutes in the pale of Washington dusk. I grabbed my bike and headed for the crosswalk, suddenly eager to leave the scene behind me. As I left I watched two men load furniture into a battered pickup truck, and the mumbling homeless woman walking away with her arms full, a powder blue coat hanging on her narrow shoulders. I watched the evidence of a lifetime, cast out onto the streets of the city to be gradually re-consumed. I wondered how much would be left for the garbage truck in the morning.

As I pedaled off, I still couldn't tell if the scene was profane or beautiful, the last insult in a hard-fought life or the whispered promise of what's to come. All I knew was that it would be gone in the morning.