Scars

The devil saw mine and left.

I have reached a point where ‘see no evil’ is beyond what I do to get by at work.  I take a long, hard look at it.   In ways hard to describe, I can honestly say the misery people inflict upon each other and towards the innocent is beyond what I have seen on television.

Those who know me understand why I cannot watch television for very long.  Shows like Storage Wars, Pawn Stars, or my favorite, Antique Road Show are complete diversions from what I do and have seen up close and personal.  The simplest line from an onscreen cop or make-believe detective is enough to make me cringe.  I work with the real people behind that thin blue line, not actors spewing canned lines.

A discussion of scars is normal.  On children, scars can be telltale signs of how long they have been abused.  I document them all, fresh and old.  Oftentimes, I have heard the detectives and officers talk about the ones never seen, but which can appear later in life.

I took a walk along the eastern part of Downtown, Los Angeles, taking photographs of anything and everything that most outside observers might not consider.  I call this sort of thing ‘grabbing elements’.  I shot fire hydrants; full framed views, close ups, different angles.  I walked through Little Tokyo, clicking away at any kind of contrast; skid marks across white paint, cracks in the sidewalk, and graffiti in every crevice.

I was about halfway into my lunch hour when it dawned on me that this city is full of scars.  People who cut into trees make deliberate scars.  Skid marks across painted white lines leave accidental scars.  Various graffiti creates scars of expression.

Later that day, as I sat alone in the office, that creepy feeling of being watched came over me.  I felt a bizarre presence.  I wondered if the presence would eventually shuffle off and leave me be, but decided to get up and make things happen.  

Something or someone was going to leave me the hell alone or my active mind was going to have to put a cork in it.  Either way, I sought out the source of the weird noises and what I perceived to be voices.  I looked across the hall and in the direction of the disturbance through a half door that allows me to interact with customers while maintaining some separation. 

My poor mind had to apologize.  Apparently, the ‘whooshing’ noises were from the elevators that were being used by workers on another floor.  During a shift change, their voices would echo throughout the building while they rode up and down along the lifts.   

No matter how I see it, the devil now knows I will get up each and every time to stare him in the face.  I refuse to give in to fear.  Let fear be his problem, his tool.  It will never be mine.