It was a dreary summer morning: overcast, not as hot as it could be, muggy, lifeless, and boring as hell.
I lined up several buckets of silty water on the edge of the creek. My feet sank into the mud, with globs of dark sand coating my sandals. I tried to avoid the giant piles of goose shit, but there was so much of it that I quickly gave up.
The creek cut through the city like a sewer — smelled like one, too. The banks were covered with urban refuse: clothing, old furniture, car bumpers, that sort of thing. The water was clear, but it must have been incredibly toxic, because I never saw any fish in it.
Most days when I worked at the creek, a resident flock of Canadian geese would scatter across the surface of the water and fuss at me from a safe distance. They were gone that morning, though — the droppings and feathers on the ground let me know they had recently passed through.
Pulling water from the creek was sort of fun when I first started the job, but it quickly became routine drudgery. It wasn’t the filling part that was bad, but hauling those heavy buckets up the granite steps from the creek to the top of the bank.
I got slower and wearier with each visit, taking my sweet time and frequently stopping for breaks. No one from my work helped me or even checked in to see what I was doing, so what did it matter?
The creek was low that morning: there was a drop of a good foot or more from the bottom step to the sandbar, which was usually submerged in water. That made the trek up the steps particularly grueling, and I took more breaks than usual.
At some point, a hazy figure appeared in my periphery. I glanced up the slope to see a man in a dark shirt and blue jeans, likely in his 30s, stepping off a bicycle. From a distance, he looked like a typical urban dweller out for a morning bike ride. Probably from a nearby apartment building, I quickly decided.
As I walked up the steps with a bucket in each hand, the man took off his backpack and laid it beside his bicycle, rummaging through the bag slowly and deliberately.
Up close, my perception of him changed. His clothes were clean and form-fitting, his hair was neat and short, but his face was worn, sunburned, with several days’ growth of dirty blonde stubble. He had the grim expression of a drifter who lived hard and toiled much.
He muttered something to himself as I looked ahead and said nothing. Further away, I shifted my eyes in his direction for a moment and had the distinct impression that he was doing the same to me. I can usually sum up a person to my satisfaction within a second or two, but everything about this man confused me.
I was surprised that I had no fear of him, but my defenses were still raised from hardened experience, checking for any sudden movements or strange behavior. I readied myself for the typical sob story and request for money.
I walked back down the steps a few minutes later, and the guy was standing at the water’s edge, barefoot, with his shoes in hand, carefully shaking dirt out of them.
I said nothing as I stood beside him, grabbed the two remaining buckets, and walked away. His backpack was sitting on the steps, unzipped; it was faded but clean — cleaner than the bag I carried — and appeared neatly packed with folded clothes.
At the top of the steps, I looked down and saw the guy pouring water on his face and soaking his hair. Jesus, I wonder if he’s going to bathe there, I thought with a twinge of sadness. I stayed away for a few minutes to give him some privacy.
When I returned, he was at the top of the steps again, standing by the bicycle and wringing out a shirt that he had presumably soaked in the creek. I lined up all my buckets again on the sandbar and began refilling them.
“Hey, man”, he called from the top of the steps.
Here it comes, I thought.
“Can you fill this bottle for me from the creek?” he said with a slight drawl, holding out a container in my direction.
“Sure”, I said automatically, running up the steps to grab it from his hand. I was both perplexed by his request and my willingness to help.
The bottle was made of thick glass and appeared quite clean. I dutifully unscrewed the lid and dunked the container in the water, listening to the glub glub glub as I avoided touching the rim.
Is this guy going to drink this shit?, I thought. Why am I even doing this?
I pulled the bottle out and inspected the contents — the water looked perfectly clean and clear.
I darted back up the steps and handed the bottle to him.
“Thanks,” he said. “That water is nasty as hell, but I need it to cool off during the day.”
“Yeah”, I responded with a nervous chuckle, trying to sound genial.
“So what are you doing with all those buckets?” he asked.
“I’m watering the trees”, I said.
“Oh, gotcha. You’re working here.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He placed the water bottle in the backpack, zipped it up, and hopped back on the bicycle. I didn’t notice when he rode away.
As I was refilling the buckets, I spotted a tiny fish — no bigger than one of my fingers — darting through the water.
The fish swam right up to the surface, and for several minutes we both stared at each other, peering into each other’s world through the glassy barrier of the water.
I guess there’s life here after all.