Apathy Trumps Empathy Every Time.

As I cut across Boylston street this morning on my way to Park Plaza, I noticed a man making strange gestures and swearing to himself while staring at the ground. Had it still been this past weekend, I'd have just said "Good morning, Dad" - but alas, the old man is 350 miles away. So I knew I was about to cross paths with yet another of Boston's lost souls.

He was weaving erratically back and forth across the sidewalk, scattering frightened oncoming pedestrians like a beaver barreling through bullrushes. I slowed my pace down to try and anticipate the best way to pass him without a cootie crossover, and as I focused my full attention on the man I realized three very alarming things. The first was that he was only wearing dirty socks on his feet. The second was that he was wearing blue hospital pants. The third was that we were less than a block away from the New England Medical center.

When I sat down at my desk a few minutes later, I looked at my telephone and thought about dialing 911 to report a possible escaped mental patient. But then I realized I was in the epicenter of the metropolitan liberal stronghold that is Boston, MA. And that he'd probably gotten $6 in change, a cup of soup and a handjob off an Emerson student by the time I'd reached my office door.