The Lonely Consumer

He sinks his teeth into the well-cooked meal he is fully prepared to pay for, embracing each bite as if his life depended on it. One hand is focused on his meal, and the another is dedicated to holding a page he's reading from a indistinguishable book I cannot identify. As this individual sits upon the counter alone, he never utters a word to another passerby or a helpful hand from the restaurant staff, yet he indulged himself into his own desolation, not focusing on the importance or vitality of the breathing and ever-growing population - just his own. He would frequently observe the atmosphere of the area, but no words dared to come out; his eyes did all the talking. The most upsetting aspect was his emptiness - no one sat near him, like a neglected classmate in high school during lunch period. I never saw him enter, nor did I see him leave. Either he was swift in entering and exiting, or I'm going insane.
I named him The Lonely Consumer, because he reminds me of someone from my mind.

The Dirt Wanderer

After a long night of traveling back and fro across the city, I decided to call it in and head home, ignoring the fact that it was past midnight and the trains would be flooded in scum, the homeless, nocturnal travelers en route to the airport, and slackers of the youth on their way to cause trouble to their fragile bodies. It was a day where I didn't have my headphones for music and a book to peruse, so all I had were my powers of observation and cognizance, although I was already sickened by the sight of these fiends. Yet one caught my attention, usually due to her dirty knees and loose mouth. While aimlessly reading the advertisements held up high on the train, my eyes caught her, mostly locked onto her knees: slightly red but mostly coated in dirt, in which a filthy assumption was conceived, even after glancing at her lips, soft and loose in structure. Above all else, she seemed completely out of it, mayhap under the influence of something, or weary from the long day she endeavored and endured. Since I was on the Red line portion of the public transportation system, I had to conduct a transfer to another line, meaning that my encounter with this Dirt Wanderer was cut short. As I got myself prepared to depart and transfer on over, I looked at her one more time and left.
I named her The Dirt Wanderer, because she reminds me of someone from my mind.

Disappointed

She looked down at her lap, then at me, then back at lap until her eyes met the shades of the nearby window, quiet in dark contemplation and at a loss for words. Tears ran down her wonderful face, and her eyes became red as pain worsened in her stomach and especially within her heart. When our eyes first met, there was an instant connection that was begging to be worked upon; now when they meet, it was merely time counting down until departure. Little did I know that this would be the last time I would see her ever again. I didn't kiss her, I didn't hold her close, and I never got a chance to utter those legendary three words. Before I could say anything else, she jolted from the bed and gathered her things in a swift fashion, aware that my presence was like a plague, and she didn't dare come closer. At that moment, I needed to hold her close, but she just walked away. I sat there for a good five minutes, realizing that I am a monster. I'll drink to that.
I named her Disappointed, because she was.

When karma strikes

In order to blow off some unnecessary steam accumulated by the departure of certain individuals, I drove over to McDonald's around midnight to punish my body with chemicals induced into a burger (you've heard the stories, especially the involvement with pink slime, I'm certain). With a static radio and low traffic, the wind blew against me in adequate velocities as I proceeded down Harlem Avenue to the nearest famous and somewhat notorious fast food joint. As I pulled up to the drive-thru, a notion quickly fired, realizing that I wasn't that hungry at all - I ended up with a McChicken sandwich and some fries, and two receipts. I paid for my own meal, while also offering to pay for the person right behind me. Of course, there was mild bewilderment (with a flabbergasted face) from the drive-thru employee, but eventually he said that I was good to go, so I drove off, knowing that my rare good deed was committed.
Here's where it gets interesting. The day after, a couple of mates and me stopped by the local 7-11 to purchase a few rounds of Slurpees for our weak bodies to endure. Once we reached the front to pay for our drinks, a late-thirties, early-forties, gentleman offered to pay for our items. With great and sincere gratitude, he told us to stay in school and all that junk. Eventually I shared my McDonald's experience with them right after the Slurpee mission, and one mate, Sandy, said, "Dude, that's good karma right there!" This lead to an epiphany: karma does exist. I didn't believe in it before (such hope I once possessed), but this slight connection and chain of events proved my faith otherwise.
As a resident of Desolation Row, I leave you with this: do good for people, for they will eventually do good for you.

Sentimental value always prevails

Some time ago, an item of certain sentimental value was burned to a crisp while being manipulated as the center point for a bonfire, but not by me. This particular item I once had was given to a dear friend, whom I believed to have had my trust. Eventually, as typical college and youthful drama occurred, this friend used the item as a somewhat brick of wood to ignite a bonfire to burn everything we once shared: old photographs from our happiest times, tiny gifts, and essentially anything related to me. When this bonfire was discovered, this friend of mine was with me when I asked this friend where the item was. To this, the friend said, "Oh, haha. Yeah, about that - it's gone. It was used for a bonfire to burn all of our stuff." I couldn't help but feel slightly broken by this revelation, knowing that this item (which was my first copy of Watchmen, the graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons) has been disintegrated into blind thin air. In turn, this friend attempted to rectify the fatuous action by purchasing another copy of the book for me, yet clearly there is no comprehension for anything related to sentimental value.
As a resident of Desolation Row, I leave you with this: if you have acquired something of value, either personal and/or importance, try not to give it away. The inner value reflects only you.