Welcome home

On the way home from my bus stop a man rushed out from behind our local doughnut shop and brushed past me, his cell phone pressed to his ear. Walking past him, I thought I noticed out of the corner of my eye two younger guys forcing small packets of white into their pockets. No excitement there. My high school supposedly had a heroin problem and that was never exactly a secret. Then again, I could just have been seeing things.

The house next door looked like it was no longer completely vacant. Another grow-op? Possibly. You can never quite tell from the street. You're not supposed to.

None of this bothers me as much as it probably should. The neighbourhood's really not that bad, in spite of its faults. It looks a little more run down, a little sadder and grubbier than when I left it, but as always, the dirt you know is always better than the dirt you don't.

At an intersection I ran into the circles man, so named because he often stops mid-step to turn a tight circle in the middle of the sidewalk or the street, wherever he happens to be. He makes two trips up and down the south side of the street every day, and has done so for longer than I can remember.

"I haven't seen you in a long time," he said, "Where have you been?" His accent wanders all over Europe. I have never been able to place it, though I've tried for years.

"I moved away for a while," I answered.

The circles man began to smile knowingly. "With a boy?" He winked.

"No."

"Well, I'm glad you're back then," he replied. His smile faded slowly as I crossed the street.