It all started when I added a carrot to my late morning protein shake. I’d been writing for hours and was ready for a snack. Come on. I knew what I was doing. It’s no secret. We all know carrots are pure sugar when juiced. I pretended I needed a few extra vitamins and drank down the dark orangey liquid. Um. Yum. Really yum. Carrot juice is nothing but raw energy in the morning. I was playing with fire.

I had an instant desire to escape. You know. Go out and play. Step out of my dank, dark apartment and see a little of this Denver I call home. It was time for me to find a new, unlikely place to write. I was ready to search for an un-office.

I pulled my hair into a pony tail, stepped into sandals, grabbed a notebook, and walked out into the light.

So. This is how people live. During the day. While I’m inside writing. People are out here driving around and walking around. They’re sitting in restaurants laughing and talking and telling secrets. I felt wildly left out. Hey. No fair. How come They’re not working? I wanted to interview each and every person I saw, right on the spot, and ask what they did for a living, then apply. Days off in Denver. Can’t be a bad job, right?

I walked down the Sixteenth Street Mall. People. Everywhere. Carrying shopping bags. Talking on cell phones. Eating ice-cream out of cones as big as their hands.

“S’hot today.” A homeless man called from his corner. He held out his cup-n-pout to people dressed in suits.

“Sure is.” I said.

“Least you’re dressed for it.” He looked me up and down.

“So.” I said, without thinking. “You gonna change or what?” I meant was going to change out of his jeans and into shorts. What was I thinking? That he would go HOME to change his clothes? Like maybe drive his Mercedes and park in the driveway of his HOUSE while he pulled clean clothes out of his top, right dresser drawer in his back bedroom?

“S” He laughed. “You know I AM gonna change. I’m gonna change into a billionaire.” He laughed harder. “Yeah. Me. The billionaire. That would be rich.”

I hung my head in my hands and looked at him sideways. “Sorry.”

“S’no problem.” He said to my embarrassment. “Thanks for the laugh.”

I continued on my way. I really needed a new place to write. Heck with a laptop on a desk. I could write anywhere, right? Maybe I could find a place where nobody else was working but me. Ten o’clock and already it was eighty-five degrees outside.

A homeless woman started banging her cardboard sign on the ground. “Hey. Hey you. HEY.”

I looked over to see what she was yelling about.

“Come on. LOOK AT ME.” She yelled. “I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU!”

She wasn’t yelling to me. She was calling to the handsome business man walking next to me. He didn’t hear her.

“WHY AREN’T YOU LISTENING?” She yelled. “I HAVE SOMETHING TO TELL YOU.”

He turned his head slowly as her voice registered inside his head.

“It’s your lucky day.” She smiled. “Turn around. You dropped your wallet.”

The man stared at her, first taking in that she was talking to him, next taking in what she had said. He spun around and saw his wallet laying on the ground. He picked it up and put it in his pocket. He kept his eyes on her.

I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful this twenty-something-year-old woman was. Jeans. T-shirt. Dark creamy skin. Hair pulled back. She was covered in a light dusting of street-grime from living outside. Her shirt’s collar was torn and her faded jeans were frayed at the bottoms but there was something about her. The man who picked up his wallet and this homeless woman would look pretty together if they were both cleaned up for dinner.

His eyes were still on her. He walked closer.

“I told you I had something to tell you.” She laughed, coyly.

“Hey.” He said, softly. “Thanks so much. You just saved my life.”

“No problem.” She tapped her sign against the ground, self-consciously.

“You hungry?” He asked.

I would have stayed and listened to that conversation all day. But. But my feet were under the impression that we were looking for an office. They started moving away from the conversation, taking my body with them. They walked to the corner, waited for the light to change, then crossed the street.

I tried to take control and turn back so I could find out if they both lived happily ever after, but my feet wouldn’t have it. How could MY feet have absolutely no curiosity? Aren’t they part of my body? They didn’t care about her answer. How would I ever know if she agreed to go out with him? How would I know if he fell for the, “She’s so pretty, she must be sane!” syndrome so many men fall for?

I turned back to peek from half a block away. They were still talking. My feet continued their march away from them.

I turned back to look from one block away: They were still talking.

I found a place to write. My un-office. Yeah. I know. Who cared? I only wanted to know about the pretty man and dirty woman. But. My feet wanted to rest. We sat. Under a shady tree on the walking Sixteenth Street Mall. On the ground. Next to a fountain. Writing. About my day. About how I decided to walk downtown. I love writing from the grimy downtown ground.

A man in a suit stood in front of me. He stepped closer. I looked up, barely noticing him. He pointed to his coffee cup, inviting himself to join me under the tree. I ignored him and turned back to my notebook. How dare he bother me in my office. How rude is that? I would never barge into his office.

The breeze picked up. Oh. Good. I needed to cool off a bit. Must be ninety-five by now. When the first rain drops hit, they paralyzed me. I hadn’t considered rain in my forecast for the perfect writing adventure. Who would? I stood up, as if moving would make the drops go away. It only made them fall faster. I was being pelted with raindrops from every direction. Um. No thanks.

I stuffed my notebook into my backpack and turned towards home. I had to walk. Long walk. Why had I decided to walk so far, anyway? I could have adventured far closer to home. The clouds covered the sky and the Gods had a good cry. All over me. All over my backpack.

I walked fast. I walked faster. Um. Why was I walking so fast? Who cared if I got wet. It was a summer rain storm. I slowed down and started wishing for puddles. Yes. I would love a good puddle stomp. I was past the point of almost wet. I was past the point of mostly wet. I was simply wet, all wet and very wet all at once.

I saw a bus. Hmmm. A bus. So much for being outside. So much for the sun on my face. Why suffer? Why get rained on? I could get home faster if I took the bus. I could save my notebook. Yes. Must save my new fifty cent notebook at any cost. I didn’t have the right change, but I did have two one dollar bills. Lucky me…

I got onto the bus and fed the first dollar into the coin box.

“No.” The driver shouted, when I went to put my extra dollar in.

“I have to.” I insisted. “I don’t have twenty-five cents.”

He let out a long puff of hot air as I fed the other dollar into the automatic money collecting machine and took a seat.

The driver muttered under his breath as the bus lurched forward. “I’m sick of people.”

I realized he was treating me poorly. Not because I didn’t have the right change. But. Because I was all wet. And maybe he didn’t like my ugly-sit-on-the-ground clothes either. Clearly this was a driver with a sense of fashion.

“I’m sick of driving people who don’t have a quarter on them.” He said, louder, as he swung the bus out into traffic.

An old lady in a shapeless dress winked at me. A man holding a boom box caught my eye, shook his head slowly, and rolled his eyes. A little boy breathed hot air onto the window and drew a sad face in his fog.

Well. So. The driver had singled me out. Ok. I mean. I was dressed in my worst clothes. And taking a bus to the bad part of town. And I had a smirk on my face from running through the rain as if it mattered whether or not I got wet. Yeah. No. It didn’t matter.

“If it were up to me…” The driver went on, “We’d only let people on the bus who had exact change.”

When the bus got to my stop, I bounded down the stairs into the rain, turned and called to the driver, “Hey. Thanks for the ride!” as if a friend had gone out of his way to drop me near my house. “Don’t worry. I’ll walk the rest of the way. I don’t mind.”

The driver narrowed his eyes at me before he slammed the door and removed the bus from my presence. Yeah. No. He wasn’t fast enough. I heard the people laughing at my comment. Ha. Ha. I heard the people laughing.

I turned and jumped in the first puddle I saw. The water was colder than I thought it would be. I turned and jumped into the next puddle along my path. And the next. And the next.

Is it just me, or could that sour-faced bus driver use a little carrot juice in his life?