S calls from a pay phone at 9 PM. He's had the big fight with his girlfriend and he's now out on the street with his dog and whatever he grabbed on the way out, stuffed in a truck he only bought a few days ago. We tell him to come on over. My sister is staying in the spare room, my studio-to-be, while she's in town for some meetings, but we'll find space somehow. S is too long for the couch, but there's a sleeping bag and other padding that should make the floor a passable place to spend the night.

I'm cooking 15-bean soup and at nine-thirty, the beans aren't even close to being done. S appears at the door, somewhat hangdog at this turn of fortune, but we listen to his sad tale and try to jolly him up a little. He muses that this might be a good indication that they're not quite ready to live together. We call a few people who might know about longer-term places to stay. We all smoke in the kitchen as the soup bubbles softly, like someone walking through mud. His dog eagerly explores every corner and open door.

By the time my sister returns from her evening meetings, we're sitting around the living room, alternately petting the dog and developing an idea for a new television series. Susan advocates that we pitch it to a producer that she knows second-hand. Everyone's mood has improved to the point where we're really convinced that this would be a great show. We naively believe that we might actually make this pitch by developing a pilot script, but only S has any real experience in television production, and that was in local cable. I am named designated writer, although have never written anything with a mind towards television. S tells me he has a book about it he can lend me. But if it's not in his truck, it may be a while before I can borrow it.

The next day was my EMT class, which I have increasingly come to dread. It was not terrifically challenging material the first time around, and the second time has begun to test my patience. The main instructor was not there, and I had the distinct sensation that the other teacher was scrabbling to make up a class as he went along. We watched lots of videos.

The first time I became an EMT, the instructor showed a video of a human dissection in the first class. The corpse was of a twelve year old boy killed by a shotgun blast to the chest, and the dissection was quite comprehensive. The instructor told us this was a good introduction to human anatomy, but later confessed that she always shows this tape to new EMT students because it tends to weed out anyone who gets grossed out easily. I think one or two students failed to appear for the second class. I felt sort of sorry for them. I think people can be trained to tolerate the messiness of patient care. I can easily become disgusted by images of blood and gore, but when I am actually treating someone, all that goes away. Knowing you have something to do about it changes your reactions completely.

On my break from class, I walked up to Union Station and sat on the pavement in front eating my lunch. I took out my camera, loaded some film, and began taking pictures of everything I could without moving from that spot. I didn't allow myself to move more than a step or two from my vantage point and shot photos of passersby amidst all the marble architecture. A man who was laying asphalt on a side street walked by and, seeing my camera, shouted "Here it is!" He stretched out his arms and gave a little bow as he passed. The shutter clicked on just that moment. He was gone before I could even bring the camera down from my eye.