Local Domain

That elderly lady on the corner needs help. I keep trying to tell someone, but no one’s listening. I told my wife about it, just to have some kind of anecdote about my day to give her. There’s nothing she can do about it; she’s rarely, if ever, in the neighborhood where I work. This lady is crazy. On top of that, she is systematically losing her hair. Someone really should get her some of those hair loss drugs. Maybe then she could at least look decent, if she’s going to distract every single person that comes down Jason Street. She drapes herself in newspaper and sings nonsense songs at the top of her lungs. Any offers of money are rejected flat out. She doesn’t want (or need) money, that’s pretty plain. Occasionally she has a cup of something like coffee or tea, or even a stale donut, which she stuffs in her mouth like it was the last food she’d ever have. I can’t bear to look at her, yet I always do, coming down Jason to the public parking lot where my car is. Last Tuesday I dared myself to go into the Pittsward Police Station and report this person to them. Oh, we know all about it, the cop said. She’s a resident of the nursing home on Justina Parkway. She always goes back there exactly at 7 PM, which is when they want them back for dinner. This is just her way of convincing herself she’s still ordinary, still normal. I just stared dumbly at the cop and said, Oh.