I Live in a Post-Apocalyptic Movie

I no longer need to watch post-apocalyptic movies; I live in one. Every day, as I walk to work, I live in a world of Mad Max, minus the pyrotechnics, monster trucks and the chance for a glorious entrance into Valhalla. 

The first man I see today has no legs. Since he has no wheelchair or prosthetics, he walks on his bloody stumps. Thanks to a hacksaw and some duct tape, he’s fashioned a walker that suits his diminished size. Halfway down the block, he stops his painful march and sits in the middle of the sidewalk. The amputee retrieves a crack pipe from the folds of his rags and lights up. Here is as good a place as any to check out of the world for a few minutes. A half dozen men and two women lay scattered around him, all unconscious. They lay contorted, bent, disfigured, like a machine gun mowed them all down, only no blood. As I come closer, I look down a nearby alley; I see another twenty people. No one seems to be going anywhere; some lean against the building, others sit, a few stumble about, and still more lay in crumpled heaps, dead to the world. One yells angrily at a brick wall. Eyes vacant; bodies in various states of decomposition. 

The next man I come across has his legs but not his pants. He’s blocked the door. When I push to get out, he swears at me. He has found a street prostitute who, for a few bucks, will give him a burst of sexual pleasure. The man had staked out the rear exit of our building for his love nest. He moves aside, angry that I’ve ruined the moment. He is not deterred, however, and as I work on our fence in the back alley, I notice that he eases the prostitute into a narrow crevice between a brick wall and a hydro transformer. The spot is disgusting beyond adequate description; it is the unofficial street latrine, and the dark, dank space is splattered with feces and filth. They don’t care. She wants the money, and he the sex. He mounts her from behind, and instinct takes over. That spot is so filthy that I’m sure it will be ground zero for the next pandemic. I walk away from the revolting scene. Squirrels and rats are more discrete. 

I head back into my building to find that a woman has snuck in. I notice that her eyes are swollen shut; I can’t tell if it’s tears, an allergic reaction, or a beating that has caused it. Her eyes are tiny slits, but her mouth is wide open. She screams, half rage, half whine. She demands that we give her back her bag. 

“This is a men’s building, and we don’t have your bag, so you need to leave.”

My attempt at reasoning falls short. Her volume increases. 

“What’s your name?”

“Kay”

“Kay, I’m sorry you’re having a bad time; let’s head outside, ok dear?” 

The attempt at gentleness fails.  

She stumbles into a room with a locked fridge. She begins beating it with her fist. Now she’s kicking it. She’s sure her bag is in the refrigerator. 

“Open this now!” 

Her shrill voice hurts my ears. Her anger increases when I fail to do her bidding. The distraught woman charges me, attempting to knock me over. She’s close enough for me to see the bugs in her hair. 

“You gotta stop, or I will have to call the police.” 

She tries to take me down again, this time with a two-handed shove; when I put the phone to my ear, she takes a swing at my head. Thankfully, the drugs coursing through her veins have severely compromised her reflexes, but the shove has dangerous strength to it. The 911 call and some helpful tenants succeed in getting her out the door. She staggers down the road, invective-laced language filling the air.

What is going on? I want to watch post-apocalyptic movies, not live them. 

Somethings got to give with our city. 

We can’t go on like this.