From Blegen to Burger King: The Countless Faces of Washington Avenue

I realize that Burger King has become a staple in my blog entries, but for good reason: I pass it every day and chance to enter it on occasion. Afternoons, mornings, late nights (they turn off the lights at 3 a.m., so I suppose this may qualify as early morning); it ceases to get tiresome. Which is why, perhaps, it has been the site of more than one monumental event. The first involved a girl (an infatuation), and one that I don't wish to revive any time in the near future; therefore, I will state simply that Burger King became - for maybe 45 minutes (at that time) - the land of dreams (my apologies, Mr. Walt Disney, but you've been one-upped). The second event was not as personal, but it was far more influential. I had entered the side doors - passing two presumably homeless men while doing so - and was readying myself for the order. Standing next to me was a towering individual, dressed entirely in black. I recognized him from one of my classes, but as expected, we shared no interaction. He placed his order, paid the money, and took his paper bag from the cashier. I, on the other hand, was forced to wait for my food to be packaged and pushed, so even if I hoped to at least say a word to him, the opportunity never came (this turned out to be a blessing, because the absence of words made the proceeding event even more impressive). No more than 30 seconds later - while I was still standing at the counter - one of the two homeless mene entered the establishment, grinning, holding a paper bag. He passed me on his way to the restroom, muttering three words: "He's an angel." I said: "Who is?" And he responded back with: "Gabriel." An obvious allusion to the biblical figure, I was still at a loss for reply. He kept walking, and the thought of the paper bag in his hand (not there when I originally passed him) failed to register in my mind. As I left those same side doors, I found to my somewhat charitable delight that the individual dressed in black was conversing with the second homeless man. I found this oddly reassuring, in a way that is perhaps beyond extensive comment. No matter, what struck me as being of the greatest import was the absence of the paper bag that he had taken from the cashier about two minutes before. Things finally clicked, cogs began to turn, and I could not help but smile. I left, thinking only about this occurrence. I had never witnessed something so subtle before, so inwardly kind. But it made me happy. And I liked it.

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Time moves slowly on Washington Avenue. Unless, of course, class begins no later than fifteen minutes before I walk out the door, at which point, time races along at breakneck speeds, challenging me to keep up with it. And in my physical condition (that physical condition known only as being completely out of shape), time will always win…always. Therefore, it is my duty each morning to leave at least 25 minutes before class begins, so that Time can at least give me a head start.

Although time may occasionally move slowly on Washington Avenue, the people sure as hell do not. No matter where on the sidewalk I happen to be, a constant barrage of intent faces is always barreling toward me. Most times, I turn away, looking at the front of a restaurant or the passing cars on the street, but if someone’s eyes ever search for my own, I calmly return the stare. It is my way of reading people, understanding them, analyzing who they are.

The worst eyes to look into are those of the destitute, the same ones that search for pitying eyes of countless others each day, in order to gain a few dollars. Washington Avenue brings me to a low when I conclude that I can’t afford to give money to all who ask me. Even the ones who I do give to, I still feel as if I’m not giving enough, as if their eyes continue to probe me, begging me in a way that their mouths cannot. On those days when I’ve got no money to give, I feel like I’m inconveniencing them, embarrassing them for having me asked me for change in the first place. They put themselves out there, and I could not respond.

There is one man in particular who catches my attention when I see him. I have never given him any money; he has never asked for any, and I have never gotten close enough to offer it. He carries with him a walker, aiding his slow movements from sidewalk tile to sidewalk tile. His winter hat never changes, but his clothes always seem to. His beard is full and white; he looks like a much larger (and I suppose more contemporary) Walt Whitman. The most prominent features about him, though – and ones that most would not expect to be seen from such a distance – are his eyes. They are warm and kind, though they are no indication of his actual temperament. Whenever I chance to notice him, his eyes are the first things I notice, already looking deeply into me. Eyes tell stories, or they look to create them.

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I understand that I previously set certain defined limits to write only about people I saw between Blegen Hall and the Washington Avenue Burger King, but I believe there has arisen a circumstance that allows me to go beyond those limits. ZLB Plasma Services, located no more than a block away from that beautiful burger paradise, is like a giant, malignant tumor on the side of neighboring Arby’s. If not for the company of people always surrounding the entrance of the building, it may have a better reputation than the one that’s been attributed to it.

ZLB is an infections disease (excuse the exaggerations, puns, etc., but they may be appropriate), a problem, an excuse for remedy. While I understand the benefits for such an establishment (i.e., the necessary donation and collection of plasma in order to save lives), there are also contributing factors that make it much less appealing to potential donors: basically, everything about it.

The tepid, uninviting duality of colors that adorn the building are suitable to the mood that exists within a 100-foot radius (this includes the Arby’s, unfairly affected by the somberness). Trash is littered all around the entrance and 20-25 feet before and after you pass the door. While this doesn’t and shouldn’t indicate the quality of the services provided - as trash is inevitably scattered everywhere within the city - it certainly doesn’t boost business.

Perhaps the biggest impediments to ZLB are the solicitors that solicit directly in front of the NO SOLICITING sign. Apparently, the rules were discarded long ago. Or maybe, the NO SOLICITING sign is a joke, a subtle insert of irony meant to make passersby laugh. It’s quite possibly one of the biggest paradoxes you’ll ever see, that hits you head on, as if to say: “WE’RE SOLICITING!� No, I know: the employees refrain from enforcing the rules because they’re afraid that the soliciting donors are packing more than healthy plasma.

If I could explain the situation any more thoroughly, I would surely be labeled racist or intolerant, but I find ZLB to be not only inconvenient, but also terrifying, which is why, for the first time, I chose to enter those NO SOLICITING doors and experience paradise for myself. It reminded me of a scene from a movie, in which nuclear missiles have devoured a small town, and the survivors are forced to relocate to a small school or hospital where they can be treated for radiation and incoherence. While none of these people were radiating nuclear waste from their skin (this would undoubtedly prevent you from donating anything from your body), they all wore on their faces the same bored, blank look. Why are we here? It was sad to witness, and the situation was made no better when I realized that playing on the ceiling televisions was Pirates of the Caribbean, the epitome of excellent “donating� film.

I left promptly with my hand locked firmly on my wallet, but I may return one day; if not for the money, then to see if Armageddon is playing.

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