Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
It's a warm, end-of-summer night in the South Bronx. I've just left my office and I'm thrown into a world that's completely different from the modern, minimalistic work environment I was just in. Everything out here is a punch to your senses: the smell of the East/ Harlem River, the sounds of the sluggish garbage trucks entering their depot, the emptiness and loneliness of what's mainly an industrial setting.
I approach the corner to wait for the traffic light to change. Through the corner of my eye I see a bulky figure coming towards where I stand. I turn around so I can see his face. He's a tall and muscular black man in his late 20s. He smiles. "Don't be scared. I see you turning around, probably thinking, 'Who's this big moreno'," he says in Spanish with a thick Puertorican accent. I smile back. "You know how it is. I'm a young woman walking by herself. I have to be careful and look around". He nods and sighs. "Yeah. Of course. You can never be too careful."
The light changes and we begin to walk. In an attempt to make small talk, I ask, "So, where are you coming from?" "I just left the Parole office."
"Oh. I work on the building right above it," I say, matter-of-factly. It's 7:30pm on a Thursday. "So they're open 'til now? That's late."
"I went there straight from work. That's good for people like me that are working, that way I don't have to miss a shift. They like that, when you're working. I've been doing good, passing my tests and shit. The only thing the officer's always warning me about this woman I'm seeing." He speaks with eyes fixed on his phone screen, hardly ever meeting my eyes.
"Wow. They even tell you who not to date? That's a bit much," I say, surprised.
"It's not like that. All it takes is for a woman to call and say you've hit her. They'll look for you, drag you like a dog, and put you in holding; all without any evidence. That's the way it works."
He looks up at me; I can see sorrow in his eyes. "If someone knows you're in Parole and they want to hurt you, they know exactly what they have to do."
When looking at him for the first time, the last adjective I would've picked to describe him would've been "vulnerable".
Every day, Ana shows up on my door wearing a new wig. It's become this tiny thing that I look forward to in the morning- trying to guess what hairstyle she'll sport next.
What's behind her decision of what hair to wear? Is it inspired by someone she spotted on the subway? Maybe her favorite tenelovela character wore the hairstyle in a particularly important scene? Or perhaps being in the "Land of the Free" means you can even afford to buy a whole new hair texture, color, style; and she relishes on her newfound ability to choose.
Even though I've always frowned upon these over-the-top artificial additions to one's body for the sake of beauty, I kind of envy Ana in that sense. She has the ability to slip into a different skin with every hairstyle she chooses; she gets to bring out all these different layers within herself.
When she wears her brunette Kate Gosselin short 'do she becomes feistier, sassier than her regular self. With the long blonde tresses she's suddenly more delicate, and won't be willing to do the more difficult and uncomfortable tasks that her job requires.
Oddly enough, my biggest question is what's under the wig? What, and who could Ana be hiding under her synthetic locks? I wonder what it would be like to to open up the door one morning and find Ana wearing her natural hair. I wonder who she'll be when she's being herself.
I thought something major would happen when I turned 23. It was the final countdown, the final stretch to us. Maybe, just maybe, this had all been one of your games- the longest, and cruelest of them all. You'd admit that you'd known all along that what we shared, that the person you were with me was the best side of you. That you'd admit that no one would ever have you in the way I did.
But then I realize, once more, that I never had you. That all I had were the memories I constructed in my mind- the ones I still have a hard time discerning whether they are real or made up. Now were strangers, two people who once used to know each other.
Two people that are now bound to reunite once every 10 years by accident, in the beverage aisle of a supermarket, after-hours. We'll see each other and see what time has done to us, how the debris of years past has hidden the faces we once thought as familiar. We'll say we'll get together, we should all get together; even though we know we never will. Our next meeting will be another fateful accident.
I thought it would all be different when I turned 23. That you showing me the song by Jimmy Eat World was all carefully planned, that all the waiting till I was 23 would just make our story even better. That you'd say the words right out the song, maybe not holding a boombox over your head, but in an equally cheesy and romantic way that I'd retell ad nauseam to anyone who'd listen.
But I turned 23. And nothing happened.
The snow fell softly, forming a mound on top of the air conditioner outside the window. Music and laughter filled the air- and one too many drinks explained the hilariously uncoordinated dance moves. She stood, escaping from the couch that threatened to sink her in; slipping out to the kitchen to get another drink. She was perhaps the single sober person in the soiree, she realized as she poured excess ice on her cranberry juice to try and pretend it had vodka in it. He entered the room behind her and opened the fridge, reaching for another beer. She smiled, amused.
"To hell with carbs during holiday season?"
"My mentality right now is in a 'fuck it all' mode, you guessed correctly", he replied with a sad smile. He lifted the can and tapped it against her plastic cup; but before she could take the mandatory sip of cheer, he looked at her and squinted slightly.
"What?", she asked, trying to seem inconspicuous.
Quickly blowing through her cover, he took her cup and smelled its contents.
"Cranberry juice, seriously?"
Unashamed, she smiled in reply. "I'm the, uh... Designated driver".
"You do realize nobody drives in New York, right?"
"I guess that makes me the Designated walker, then"
"That's more like it".
They shared a quiet and awkward smile; but soon her sober impatience made her be the first one to bolt.
In the best wallflower fashion, she avoided the crowd and witnessed, amused, the drunken, disorderly conduct of her friends. It was as if their boldness was directly proportional to the alcohol level in their blood. She liked to think she was capable to be bold enough without the alcohol, but she knew it wasn't so. Still, it was something she hadn't picked up, and it seemed the appropriate time for it had passed already, like with so many other things.
She felt his eyes fixed on her, impossible to pretend it was casual. Soon their gaze became a full-on staring contest: eyes fixed on each others, the intensity increasing with each passing second. With a smile, she lowered her gaze, admitting defeat. He smiled back, triumphant.
As she slipped back into the kitchen for some chips, he followed her in.
"Another beer, is it?"
He marched up to the fridge, but his fumbling motion made him stumble.
"Whoa", she said, quickly running to his aid. She helped him up and steadied him. "I guess this is when the Designated walker position comes into effect. Lemme take you home".
"I never took you for the type to take advantage of drunk people", he said with a smirk, but took her shoulders to be steadied.
They exited the apartment while their friends yelled suggestively. She insisted she was walking him home and coming back; but her words were drowned by the wolf whistles.
Nothing prepared them for the cold outside- it was like being slapped in the face. She took the approach of "ripping off the band-aid", and jumped outside without giving it much thought. She lifted her head to face the sky, the snowflakes melting in contact with her skin.
"This is the only time I enjoy the snow. Pre-black slush; pre-fuck up your commute in the morning... It's even pretty now". She snuggled into her peacoat and kicked the snow around.
He put his hands on his pockets and shook his head. "Jesus. I had no idea you could be sobered up by freezing temperatures. Duly noted". She smiled and with a big sigh filled up the air with smoke. He pretended to hold a cigarette and blew out warm air, the fumes dancing in the wind. They smiled and started walking.
The dangling of keys was the only sound heard inside the dark apartment. The door swung open and they both hurried inside the warm, cozy space. She rubbed her hands together and blew warm air into them, while he hurried to the heater.
"This is a lot better than that, come here", he said while his hands hovered over the heater.
A bit skeptical, she put her things down and sat next to him in front of the tiny heater. The warmth tingled her skin, feeling both painful and deliciously good at the same time. She looked up at him, he smiled.
"Look at how cold my hands were", he said, placing his hand on her cheek. The sharp pang of iciness made her turn her face, but he left his hand against her skin. Their eyes met; and she knew it was time to prove if her alcohol-deprived body was in fact bold enough. She moved forward and their lips met, the skin curiously warm in spite of the temperature. Waves of warmth traveled down her whole body. They had both found a better remedy for warming up; almost borrowing each other's air with each breath, dying suddenly and coming back to life all in one instant.
The same alcohol depravation that had made her go for the kiss was what made her stop it. "I have to go back".
"Please stay", he whispered; like he really meant it.
She looked at his eyes; they gleamed with the glassiness of inebriation. She smiled, sadly. "Not tonight. I was just the designated walker".
She took one last look at him and smiled. She opened the door, and was released into the bowels of the city once again.
She had everything she had ever wanted. She called the City of Lights her home; pen and paper earned her a living; sunlight flooded her apartment and she smiled just because.
Mornings started with her computer, and in this one a Facebook status caught her eye: "(Blank) is now married to (Blank)". A picture of a beaming couple accompanied the post, and right then she learned that an image is really worth more than a thousand words.
One image and there was no more sunlight. One image and she was back to that room, back to that moment that could've changed everything.
She shook away the images of what could've been, reminding herself she was now an adult. She took a deep breath, "liked" the picture, wrote the standard congratulatory message and well wishes.
She closed the laptop, and tried to ignore how the sunlight didn't shine the same anymore.
“Fuck. What are we doing here?”, she said, staring at her white Oxfords. She was scared to look up at the reason why: Him, with those irresistible, curious eyes behind his thick plastic frames.
He took a gulp and tried once again to keep it cool. “What do you mean?”
“Who needs to edit on a Friday night, when the weather is perfectly nice outside, when we don’t have a deadline…” She glanced at him, mustering all her courage to speak truthfully. “… And when we both have someone to go back to”.
“Who needs to edit on a Friday night, when the weather is perfectly nice outside, when we don’t have a deadline…” She glanced at him, mustering all her courage to speak truthfully. “… And when we both have someone to go back to”.
She knew by his eyes that he understood her. How much longer would it take for them to realize what they were doing? The time was now, before it was too late. They stared at each other, ashamed and longing.
“It’s not like that… At least not anymore. I’ve… always wanted this, but it’s just never been the right time”, he managed to mumble out.
“I know it’s not the right time, but I’m also sure of something else: this… thing we have… You know how I hate static shocks? That’s what you are to me. Just like them, you’re unpredictable, powerful, inevitable: appealing and repelling at the same time. You are like electricity, and in just one touch, you have the power to break me”.
“I know it’s not the right time, but I’m also sure of something else: this… thing we have… You know how I hate static shocks? That’s what you are to me. Just like them, you’re unpredictable, powerful, inevitable: appealing and repelling at the same time. You are like electricity, and in just one touch, you have the power to break me”.
And, automatically, when he's singing me to sleep, you come up again. And so do the tears...
But why?
What do I mourn with these tears?
Is it really you that I miss?
In this cold night in the city of my dreams I find myself missing the solitude you made me feel.
In that darkness I found the company of your illusion, and of a not so sane me.
A few years later, a few screws tightened,And a voice that's not even your own
Is capable to take me back to that room, illuminated by a single, crimson bulb,
Where the music blasted as I crawled to bed,
You mirage looking over me...
As it still does when Ben Gibbard sings.
"Why hey there, Mister", she said, arching her back seductively as she noticed me.
"Wow. You're certainly... changed", I said, failing to sound unimpressed.
"Yeah. Have to blend inside this crowd, otherwise I'd be eaten alive", she replied, dropping the act and practicing her favorite hobby: bothering me.
"If you just gave them a chance..."
"...I would like 'em even less", she quickly snaps back.
"You know, you really have a problem with being too judgmental", I say, as a very real joke.
"Aha, I do?", she answers, with a daring smile.
"You missed 4 complete seasons of The O.C.!"
"Low blow! We agreed we were never bringing that up!"
"And now you're addicted!"
"Stop it already!", she pleads, with a laugh.
She could never end things on a high note, so she just blurted it out.
"It won't ever be like this again. I mean, you and me".
"There you go again..."
"I'm sorry, I just... It just never seems to be a right time to discuss this"
"Is there anything to discuss, really?", I ask, defiant, suddenly losing my cool.
She keeps quiet, wisely.
Neither of us moves nor says anything, allowing the issue to be brought to mind again. After analyzing the elaborate excuses we'd practiced so many times before, we agree it's not time yet to discuss them. Maybe our time just expired long ago.
"Um... Sorry, I..."
"No, I'm... I'm sorry; I shouldn't have brought it up".
Another one of our infamous silences fills up the space left from the absence of words. It's like a three course menu: Entree, the silence. Main Course, Uncomfortability. Dessert, Rapid flee. Seconds pass and we're already neck up into the main course. One minute and it was time for dessert.
"Hey, um, listen, I've got to..."
"Oh, yeah, me too, the guys are waiting for me..."
"Ok then, it was, um, nice to see you again"
"Yeah, same here".
And we both flee.
And we both feel a cold stab to our insides, a firm grip to our stomachs.
And we both feel lonely.
Like many other times before, I got inside the enormous metal worm; with a loosely defined route. Several eating stops later, these eyes are caught up inside the worm, just like me. Inside our entrapment, our eyes found each other. We carefully studied one another from the distance, making sure our memory would hold on to even the smallest details, since we both knew from the beginning all we had was this moment.
The Worm continued to make its occasional feeding stops, and even though more people got caught in it, these two pairs of eyes could see nothing but each other. Longing so badly to have the guts to materialize the stares into something more timeless. After realizing it would not be done, we both decided to make the best of these 15 minutes.
Up, down, to the side. To your hair, to your coat, to your leopard printed Vans. To my sketchbook, to my earrings, to my shy smile. Getting closer, yes, but always making it seem casual. Make a staring contest, who can watch longer without looking down. You win, I was too much of a coward to keep it up. Your eyes, once again your eyes; dark and daring.
It's about time already, our chance is over. We get another glance, a regretful one. This is the last chance. The canned voice announces the opening of the Worm's jaws, and you walk out, free. I lower my eyes, still regretting, still knowing I have a chance, feeling even more regretful. The doors close, it's over. I try to catch a last glance, the last time I see before this is nothing but information stored in this not quite reliable disk. There they are, the eyes, the eyes of my perdition, right behind the glass. Waiting for their last glance, waiting for my eyes. More of a goodbye, the last stare is an apology. The Worm moves, and while our eyes try to still hold on to each other, they grow more and more distant.
Finally, the eyes disappear. Perhaps momentarily, most likely forever.
The true beauty of it all it's that this modern, subterranean love, lasted about 15 minutes. 900 seconds. And these young, careless hearts need even less to fall in love.
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