Stories begin and end on Third Avenue.

Tourists wander past on their way to Pike Place Market, the Seattle Art Museum, and Pioneer Square. Buses roll past in roaring caravans along this arterial route. Men in dark suits and women in heels and with highlights in their hair hurry past towards the skyscrapers. Delivery men push carts carrying towers of boxes.

Men solicit women for sex. Women solicit men for cigarettes. People solicit other people for crack cocaine.

Men push over trash cans and punch the buses at the bus stop. Women scream obscenities at passing cars.

We were walking in opposite directions along Third Avenue. After I called his name, he looked up and saw me smiling at him.

“Oh… hi,” he mumbled, slowing down. He scratched his auburn beard with the long, dirty fingernails of his hand. He wasn’t wearing the same clothes he wore when I last saw him two weeks prior; now an oversized grey tee shirt hung on his stocky frame and tattered (but clean) blue jeans covered his legs. His shoes were white and loosely laced. A faded green sweatshirt was tied around his waist.

His diagnosis is schizophrenia. His name is Robert.

Robert is about my age. We have known each other for about three months. He likes Corn Nuts and orange soda. He prefers his coffee without cream and sugar. He was born in Idaho and spent part of his life in Montana. Before coming to Seattle, he lived in Nevada. He said he has two older sisters, though he doesn’t keep in touch with them anymore.

“We don’t have much in common,” he simply remarked.

Robert and I don’t actually communicate well with each other. I don’t understand over half of what he says to me:

“How are you, Robert?”

“Oh! I’m fine. Apples! You know about the apples, right?”

“The apples?”

“Red apples. Only the red apples.” He looked at me, an expression of curiosity on his face. He then burst out laughing, slapping his knee in amusement. I couldn’t help but smile.

“Oh… it’s just apples. But yeah! I like orange soda. Burritos, too. And macaroni and cheese. The cheese is good,” he continued. He stopped talking and looked at me quizzically.

“Did you eat breakfast this morning?” I offered, concerned that he was hungry.

He looked at me. Five seconds passed. Then ten. He finally rubbed his face and replied, “Yeah. Yeah! I ate.”

Robert tolerates my company. I like him.

He and I stood on Third Avenue while the morning crowd milled past us. He was mumbling.

“I can’t hear you,” I said.

“I like the sun,” he answered.

“I’ll follow you,” I answered, pointing towards a swath of sunlit sidewalk. He continued to mumble and began to walk. I hurried my pace and joined him at his side. I craned my neck to hear his murmurs, but the bus engines drowned him out. He was looking at the ground and making small gestures with his hands. Though he was still talking, I wasn’t certain that he was talking to me.

A crowd of people engaged in animated conversation approached us. They were clearly engrossed in their conversation and did not seem aware that Robert and I were heading towards them. I was already calculating how I would walk around them—

—when suddenly, I felt Robert’s hand gingerly touching my arm. He gently pulled me out of the way of the oncoming crowd moments before they brushed past. By the time I realized what had happened, he had already released his hand and I saw his arm drifting back to his side.

He then resumed mumbling to himself, his eyes downcast. When we reached the section of sunlit sidewalk, he hesitated and slowed down. He made one last small gesture and asked a quiet question to the ground.

Robert then looked up, squinted at the glowing morning orb, and, looking at me, said, “I don’t know. Where do you want to go?”