Losing/Losers

I live in a complex designed by Peter Osler. It features three man-made ponds with resident fowl including flocks of geese and a pair of swans, monogamous. Each year they bear between two and seven cygnets. It's heartbreaking to watch a group of them diminish from say five, to one. Walking past them, as they hiss, you wonder what fate befell the young. You imagine one was snatched up in the jaws of a dog, the other falling to its death in the cistern of the pond's filtration system. Whatever the case, it will be repeated the following year. This place is lush, verdant. The meat and bones of the structures are shit. The siding was replaced, the balconies enlarged. These were superficial measures to improve things. At dusk, though, bunny rabbits (and hares as well, apparently) appear and hop about. Deer amble past nibbling on the grass, raising their heads gracefully in alarm at the slightest movement. It's paradisal, really. I've lived here for seven years now. Unable to forge my way through graduate school, stopping and starting and finally withdrawing in disgrace...and disgust, I am prone to spotting fellow losers. They develop singular and, upon observation, similar habits. And I find it alarming. First, there's Glen. Fifteen years ago, he would pop up in my mother's unit and she would kindly listen to him as he contemplated suicide. His wife was leaving him. He was bereft. He was balding. He had long, wavy hair that he wore pulled back in a loose ponytail. It was disgusting. Having moved back here I am acutely aware of his habits. He drives a burgundy SUV. A headlight or tail light is always out. He drives in and out of the complex at all hours of the night, roaring over the giant speed bumps. I once asked him what he did for a living and he said something like, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you." And now I think maybe he deals in penny stocks, something shady online. Or he's a drug dealer. Heroin. Pot's ubiquitous and doesn't require dealers anymore. When I go running, I pass his porch in the back and he's always smoking. He jerks his chin out in greeting. Or waves, cigarette in hand, always on the phone. His fat dog running after me, sniffing for my crotch. What Glen and I have in common is the smoking. No one smokes here. But I like to slip out the sliding glass door of my bedroom, slide down on my haunches and smoke cigarettes on the cement patio. When I'm done I stamp on them with my foot and put them in a can. And he stays up late. I stay up late. This is a sign of being a loser. Or it is symptomatic of being a loser.
I ride the bus because I crashed the car. All kinds of losers ride the bus. Losers who talk to themselves. Losers who talk to other people who have no interest in listening to them. When I choose to leave the house for a routine errand, a woman from the complex seems to time her excursions with mine. Or mine with hers, is maybe what she thinks. In another time, she would have been branded a witch. She wears a black, wide-brimmed hat, bristly gray hair bursting forth and a long, black coat to match. If she sees you, she will approach you, talk to you and not stop until you walk away. Sometimes she will follow you, still talking. She covers any topic you can think of. She has a strategy. If you say something, if you utter one word, she will pick up on it, contextualize it and start spewing. It's terrifying. She walks with purpose. She wears practical shoes. She is alone.
People fail. People lose. People fall. And don't get up. Mental illness might play a role. And I wonder, is this my future.
When I go grocery shopping, when I randomly go to DSW to browse, when I go to Michael's to get superglue I always see Chris on the bus, a man who might be called 'touched', a man who is slightly off, wearing a bright orange beanie, the kind you see during hunting season, talking up a storm with a pronounced lisp. Talking to no one.