Bearded middle-eastern/Pakistani man with AR-15 stands in the median. He wears fatigues and a tactical vest with multiple magazines. Baby-faced, his intention is to protect the multifaith healing service in the wake of the Istanbul airport attack yesterday. However, I can't imagine the shocking impression he strikes into the passing motorists. I myself feel like his loyalties can switch any second, and that life is more temporary than the media-fueled thoughts and prayers.
Peace protesters walk along the crosswalk at every red light. I see many of the Jewish faith (in both ancient and stereotypical clothing) calling for the protection of Muslims from retaliatory attacks by an enraged gentry. LGBT and anarchists also appear to take part in the demonstration. The tacky building housing the shoe store is visible in the background in its prefab neon glory.
Yup, the vigilante guard is in fact the Arrowhead Regional shooter; still alive.
Back in the parking lot, I see a burned white woman. At first, her scars are limited to her arms and parts of her face. Then, as the conversation with her less-affected burned friend deepens and the fervor of the grieving crowd increases, the burns become more extensive. Her hair disappears and her left eye is gone. The conversation between the two is not in any way affected.
Comic book store, hair cuts, Chuckee Cheese.
Back in Boston, in front of the house. I try to take a picture of it at night, especially since the front yard was extended to provide room for a gorgeous cemetery. Luckily, street-sweeping has ridden the sidewalk of vehicles, and I can get a wider angle.
In need of a shower, I walk inside with a towel for which I used no fabric softener. Having been gone for many years, I know little to none of the active brothers, and it's been so long I don't know where any of the showers used to be. Some are drunk, and they mock me using the three years worth of stories handed down to them. One puffs up his chest and walks arrogantly.
A shower on the third floor seems available, but I am warned by some brothers to stay away. (They don't tell me why.)
On the fourth floor I find A1 and A2 and kindly ask if I could use their shower. Theirs is actually a bathtub and the only privacy is one of those semicircular curtain rods you would find at a medical clinic. I close the curtain to shield A2 as I undress (since she's a lady) but I don't really know or care where A1 is.
My bathing is rather cursory and mostly consists of a gazing stupor. When I snap out of it, I am largely dry and my shorts are on. We all proceed to have dinner with one another downstairs.
Mashed punpkin paste with peanut butter.