"WOW!"

"Who would have done this?" An addled woman asked herself loud enough for everybody within 10 feet to hear.

"How could they just leave? Did anyone see anything?" Another dumbfounded spectator asked everyone and anyone who could possibly provide an answer, yet nobody knew anything.

"I've never seen or heard of anything like this! Have you?" A disbelieving man asked the speechless woman whose hand he was firmly clenching as he removed his designer sunglasses to further examine the public disruption.

"Are you serious?" Questioned another baffled onlooker as she impulsively reached for her cellular phone to snap a picture of the crowd- forming spectacle.

"What the hell?" A short man in a business suit inappropriately blurted out before blushing and quickly palming his mouth in shame as if he had just realized that he was standing in the vicinity of holiness.

"I honestly don't know what to think," expressed a uniformed nun to the equally concerned, white-haired priest as they both exited the chapel, opening the oversized, beautifully ornate wooden doors that squeaked with a tone of antiquity.

Suddenly from within the clueless throng, a scraggly, bearded man provided a little enlightenment. He was wearing badly torn and faded Levi jeans, only one oversized sandal, and a now gray "Don't Mess with Texas" tee shirt that was at one point in time a cleaner-looking white. "Some men in a blue delivery truck came and just dumped it all here. They seemed like they was in a hurry, like they didn't want to get seen. Didn't take them more than two minutes. I know because I timed them with my watch while they was unloading everything." His scratchy voice was as abrasive as an unused sheet of sandpaper.

A half-empty, miniature bottle of Jack Daniels slipped from out of his jacket sleeve and onto the burning concrete floor as the derelict stretched out his arm to proudly show everyone his impressive timepiece of which was very familiar to me. I would venture to guess that his new watch was now his most valuable possession. I don't really know if a homeless man has a need to keep abreast of the time, but it surely can't hurt. Plus, I was already a little jaded with that watch and felt it was time for a change.

The vociferous crowd continued to gather quickly, surrounding the Catholic Church on the street corner like starved vultures hovering over their next meal. The gathering of civilians would have appeared to be normal on any given Sunday morning, but it was a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of a hot, windless summer day. The choral-like expressions of bewilderment and uncertainty were majestic music to my ears, and as a music lover, this was quite an agreeable reaction. This was even more fulfilling than listening to Vivaldi's "The Four Seasons" Violin Concerto in E major at full volume, and I definitely don't mean any disrespect to the incomparable Vivaldi. Not everybody took part in the chorale of confusion though. Like many of the other instances before, there were also a few who seemed to be at a loss of words; their priceless silence was just as evident and pleasing to my ears.

As I inconspicuously stood amongst the dismayed and perplexed crowd in the middle of downtown San Antonio, Texas, I found myself almost carelessly smirking at the multitude of spectators' obvious dumbfoundedness for which I was so proudly responsible. I don't do this to be cruel or for any form of needless recognition. On the contrary, I do it to be kind yet anonymous. It helps me momentarily satisfy a deep void, even though it seems to never fill completely, forcing me to attempt to replenish the unreplenishable abyss. In addition, leaving people more clueless than they already are is an added incentive that brings me gratification and indulgence. If I had lingered around any longer amongst all the clueless pedestrians, I would have no doubt broken out in a frenzy of uncontrollable laughter that may have given me away, so I quietly and nonchalantly tramped on my way home to my sanctuary of solitude.

Being noticed was the last thing I needed because I don't want anyone's attention or need anyone's approval, nor do I need these empty and unnecessary amenities. I get along more than fine in my clandestine ways. I do the things that I do because I feel they are appropriate, in some instances, undoubtedly necessary. I don't want to be remembered for the things I do, and this is the main reason I do everything in my power to "assist" in complete anonymity. The opinions or acknowledgement of others does nothing for my satisfaction. I am pretty certain that my reclusive disposition is a side-effect of my upbringing, so it technically isn't my fault that I am the way I am.

As I strolled by The Alamo for the three-hundredth time on my way home, the sounds of confusion behind me began to fade away along with the overly common and all-to-familiar shriek of an ambulance siren racing away to a nearby hospital in hopes of saving the life of whomever is in need of saving. It's pretty disheartening to see the indifference that I witness everyday. The alarming siren of an ambulance or a fire engine used to mean something when I was a kid. It used to convey genuine compassion or latent commiseration for the unfortunate ones in need of such assistance. Now these unalarming sounds are just commonplace and often go unnoticed or ignored like the sounds of church bells signaling the commencement of another mass or a woman's desperate scream for help in the middle of an otherwise peaceful night. I must admit that I am sometimes guilty of an almost inhuman and disturbing stoicism, but I do my best to return to a human place, a place that many have already abandoned.

As much as I dislike living in big cities, I am in need of the camouflage that it provides me so that I can remain as hidden and as unnoticeable as possible. I wouldn't be able to anonymously continue what I do in a rural area or small town; I have therefore acquiesced to living in a metropolitan area such as this. On the squalid downside, the sour and frequent exposure to heartless apathy and inhumane indifference is much greater. With such a superfluous populace, there is always someone or something in need, even if it is just a Catholic Church in need of musical instruments for the church band to replace the instruments that were stolen just a few days before.

I am not a member of any religious sect, but it shouldn't take a saintly philanthropist to sympathize with victims of larceny or any other misfortune, especially if the victim is an institution intended to bring people closer together and give them a sense of understanding, unity, and purpose. It is precisely this type of senseless and criminal behavior that regularly shoves me to the brink of hopelessness in humanity. All one has to do is stealthily eavesdrop on a conversation in line at an overcrowded coffee shop or take a brief skim through any unrecycled newspaper that one finds thrown on the floor by a park bench to get a clear perspective of the indecency and despondency that is bruising the tender flesh of humanity. Gone are the days of innocuous innocence and comforting compassion, or so it surely seems that way.

Whenever I ponder on the good old days, my mental reflections manifest in the warmness of black and white, as if modernity, in all its vibrant yet blinding high definition has become all too clear, all too colorful. Although newspapers have become daily bearers of bad news and it is precisely this bad news that leads me to malaise ad nauseam, this is one of my methods of staying informed with the excess of misfortunes surrounding me. It is the source that usually guides me to my next act of kindness or to my next victim in need, like the St. Paul's Catholic Church on the corner of Esperanza Street and Amistad Avenue. Although being disheartened by bad news and yet searching for it page after page may seem masochistic, it really isn't. I like to think of it as a cruel necessity. It is reminiscent of the times as a child when I felt compelled to look under my bed to make sure there wasn't any horrific, blood-thirsty monster waiting for me to fall asleep; I was frightened to look underneath the bed that served as a minimal yet vital barrier from a gruesome confrontation, but I had to look anyway to give me peace of mind, at least for that one particular night.

I don't have too many disturbing memories of my past, but I don't have too many soothing and comforting personal memories either. Too much of my past is a mystery, and I guess this is a big part of my decision to remain as shadowlike and unnoticed as possible. I like to think of myself as an active yet invisible spectator in the unfair game of life.

In today's digital and easy-access world, anonymity is practically impossible, but if you play your cards meticulously, it is a little easier than one would think, especially when you are wealthy enough to live comfortably without the need to work a day in your life and therefore not accumulate an inconvenient paper trail that could lead others to locate you. Some people are blessed with good looks; others are smooth and charming. Some are remarkably intelligent; others are gifted athletes. I am none of those things. I am seriously nothing to brag about or envy, with one small exception; I am rich. To be honest, I am ridiculously rich. I am the probably the only person in the free world who has nightmares of having too much money. My parents left me a shit load of cash before they died, and now I have decided to spend the rest of my mediocre life using the root of all evil (money) to do just and admirable things.

If Mom and Dad were alive today, I hope that what I am doing with my time and money would make them proud of me to the point of making them smile, at least just once. Although probably trivial and meaningless to most, I never really had the chance to see them smile, and therefore can't imagine them doing so, especially Mom since I never had the chance to meet her. She was taken away from my Dad and me when I was an infant. Dad didn't pass until later, but I guess you could say that my father was also erratically taken away from me during my childhood but in a different way; Dad's absence was sporadically temporary, not permanent like Mom's. Dad was always at work, so if he somehow managed to squeeze out anything resembling a smile, it was never in my presence. He must have felt that I was precocious and responsible because he never hesitated to leave me at home alone while he went off to do whatever it was that he did to pay our bills. I would assume that this type of absentee parenting would likely raise a disturbing flag to Child Protective Services, but back in the day, this was nothing to really display any concern over. As a child, I often tried to comfort myself with the thought that Dad would much rather spend his time with me than to spend it away from me at work. To this day, I still don't know what my father did for a living. I just know that, judging by his pensiveness and distantness, he would mentally bring his demanding work back home with him, often causing him to go sleepless and in turn rendering me sleepless from worrying about him.

It is rather paradoxical but no less true. For as long as I can remember, I have felt a perpetuating, pervasive emptiness from the loss of both of my parents, but especially for my mother for obvious reasons, yet I never had the simple satisfaction of remembering her. I long to fill the anguishing void her absence has plagued me with, yet my infancy renders me unable to consciously and truly recall that void ever being filled. I am searching to regain the love that I don't remember having, desperately and feverishly grabbing for an unreachable intangible. It is truly a hauntingly ineffable feeling to long for someone you can't remember yet someone you love with all your heart. I have heard that one can eventually become numb from constant exposure to immense pain to the point that they no longer feel anything resembling discomfort. The agony associated with the pain takes one to a point beyond discernable anguish and to an eventual state of welcomed torpidity. Contrarily, my ruthless form of pain doesn't bestow me with this luxury. It cruelly stops me at the threshold of pain before I can begin to appreciate the painless state of pain beyond pain. I am left shamelessly begging for the sweet taste of numbness. My torment has no solace. It hurts; it just simply continues to hurt.

The short, uninterrupted stroll home was once again therapeutic. I live in a humble, practical two-bedroom and one bath apartment. One of the bedrooms, the larger of the two, is for my modest living accommodations; the other bedroom has now become a storage room for all my things; computer, CDs, books, DVDs, photo albums and my black, leather beanbag that I am now convinced is a secret cure for insomnia. My abode is nothing fancy or elaborate, and I prefer it this way because it allows me to keep a low profile and maintain a frugal lifestyle. Nobody really bothers me unnecessarily, and I gladly return the kind favor. Like a schizophrenic's imaginary best friend, I am practically invisible to others and prefer to live in my own little, uncomplicated world. In actuality, this apartment reminds me of the simple, luxuriless apartment where Dad and I used to live back in San Leandro, California before I decided to move to San Antonio, Texas in hopes of starting a new life, a life with minimal social interaction and no previous associations to vex me.

My semi-autonomous childhood in San Leandro was pretty normal, as normal as it could be considering my mother had died before I was even out of diapers. Much like today, I spent the majority of my time alone, cleaning, washing, reading, etc. Life in San Leandro was rather uneventful and lackluster, but I kind of preferred it this way; it was a meaningful and fulfilling simplicity that is hard to find in today's different, convoluted world. You really can't suffer from heartfelt disappointment in anything if the level of life's expectations is precautiously kept below the knees. Nothing much ever happened there. Aside from being the supposed birthplace of actor Lloyd Bridges, there was nothing else to hype over, and I would likely have a difficult time trying to convince even the most zealous tourist of visiting my insipid yet oddly pleasant hometown.

I often look back at things and still wonder how my father was able to manage not losing his sanity from sleep deprivation, not to mention any other sapper of soundness that he secretly kept from me. It must have been a dull life, having to make me a priority and what not. Without a doubt, my father was a remarkable man; I don't know how he successfully managed to provide for me and raise me alone while having to work at ungodly and volatile hours of the night and day. To this day, I still don't know what my father did for a living. He made a valiant effort to separate the specifics of his hectic work life from his family life, even if I was all the family he supposedly had. I had a feeling that he didn't want me know what he did or where he went whenever he hastily left our apartment with his black overcoat and black, lock-protected briefcase, so I eventually stopped my annoying inquiry during my early teen years. If Dad didn't feel the need for me to know something, then who was I to argue with that?

"What time are you going to work today, Daddy?" I used to frequently ask so that I could have an idea as to whether the day would be happily spent with him or sadly wasted without him.

"I am not sure, Son. I will go to work when they call me, if they need me." He would curtly answer without looking me directly in the face, probably to avoid witnessing my regular pout of disappointment with his sporadic, demanding working hours. "For now, let's just enjoy our time together," he would often say with an unconvincing smile as if he too wasn't sure how long our time together would last.