Friend and Foe

I watch silently as she crosses the street. A corner of white paper sticks out of the back pocket of her jeans; the second letter that I've delivered to her. Her direct and mechanized gait reminds me of her stubborn refusal to believe me. If only she would accept my explanation. But she's too hurt. After months more of my own denial this damage will prove to be irreparable.

She grabs the handle of the door, yanks it open with surprising ease, and walks into the building without looking back. For weeks I had been lost in the dark as to what happened. Something frivolous, I had assumed. Something that time undoubtedly would heal. At long last the rumor reached me about what I had supposedly said. Shocked at how ridiculous it was, I had dismissed it as bizarre and irrelevant. As the weeks piled up, so did the questions. By the time the seriousness of the situation dawned on me it was already far too late. Stubbornly I refrained from delving into why I couldn't understand how anyone believed it.

Sitting on the steps, I can hardly believe it myself. Placing my palms on either side of myself, my hands begin to absorb the lingering heat of the summer still radiating off the concrete. Her words circulate over and over in my mind, but they're still difficult to grasp. The name of her source. At long last I understand why everyone has believed without any reservations. At one time we would have called each other best friend, but that time is long past. We both know it, but we've cloaked the widening chasm between us well enough that no one questions our broken friendship. Until now I've never doubted this decision to cling to the shell of a hollow friend. At some point in the future I had hoped that our friendship would somehow become genuine again, but now I know that it never will. This time he has struck me as no one else could have, and he knows it. His motives are unnaturally sinister. 

The pen with which I had written my second apology is still resting in my pocket. Twirling it around my thumb, I consider everything lost and each possible course of action. 

"Hey."

Looking up, I see him standing behind me. The friend who has started so many rumors about me but whom I have continually forgiven until today. "Yeah?"

He smiles at me skeptically, "You just finishing lunch?"

Standing up, hands void of any evidence of food, I look him in the eye. His eyes long to search my face for the source of my uncharacteristically delayed response, but I hold his gaze. The sunlight reflects off his scalp through spiked hair. In the bright light of midday his ears always take on a transparently reddish hue. Those ears were once entrusted with my every thought, but can never again be trusted. "Oh, yeah."

Taking a step toward me, he looks up and down the empty street. "You just ate out here by yourself?"

My stomach lurches emptily as I sit back down on the warm steps. Nodding my head, I say, "Yeah. Sit down. It's a nice day."

Walking down the steps, he turns to look at me. "Nah, I have to go." After walking a few more feet, he glances back innocently and asks, "I'll see you later, yeah?"

I force a smirk and say, "You bet. Buddy."

The Stairway Away

The man struggles against his captors as they drag him up the stairs. I can't help but cringe as his body thumps like a sack of potatoes against each step. I do nothing just like everyone else. As soon as his feet disappear around the marble corner the world regains its natural motion. The bearded man next to me buries his nose back in a newspaper as a woman ushers her children back through the sliding doors. I instinctively follow, stepping in just moments before the doors slam shut. I look back at the now-occupied bench where the man had lain only minutes before.
Stepping onto the metro 15 minutes ago I hadn't immediately noticed the shoddily dressed man lying on one of the benches. The metro hasn't been as crowded today as I've seen it in the past. Everyone to my right is looking in one direction with palpable contempt etched onto their pale faces. I step closer to two men, both donning similar styles of mullet. I see the target of everyone's brooding; there's a man taking up an entire bench to himself. His beard is thin and graying. The brown beanie atop his head is a few shades darker than his muddy coat. He's cradling his head in the crook of his right arm while his left arm is dangling toward the floor. It's easy to visualize the empty vodka bottle beneath his fingertips that has since rolled away.
I wonder why no one has said anything to him as I silently retain my distance. The whine of the wheels drops an octave, signifying an approaching stop. When the doors slowly pry themselves open the sound of a whistle immediately draws everyone's eyes out into the underground hall. Those of us by the gaping doors rush outward in tandem like a rehearsed flock of birds. Running past me in a camouflage blur, the policemen stomp onto the train as those still aboard back away. Without a word, one of the policemen begins kicking the slumbering man furiously. Sitting up slowly in shocked inebriation, the man is grabbed from behind by the second policeman and pulled brutally off the bench and out of the train.
Watching the one-sided scuffle taking place only a few feet away, I backed away toward the old man and his newspaper. The complete silence of the metro is broken by Travis' voice, "That was weird."
I glance over my shoulder to face him. Keeping my voice down to avoid unwanted attention, I reply, "Yeah, it was."
Turning away, another train flies swiftly by. The others' faceless images stream along like colorful shadows inside the light of the other train. I'm sure that we appear the same to all of them.

Finding Fruit in Philadelphia

The spongy padding of the stroller's handle feels awkwardly foreign in my hands. A girl wearing a green sweater and a long ponytail smiles gently at me while I handle a few tangerines across the aisle from her. I can read the underlying traces of friendliness in her smile, but I avert my eyes with a feeling of alienation. I do not belong in this world of strollers and cheery toddlers. My brother and his wife had asked me if I could handle Evey for a few minutes on my own, and without a second thought I had lavished them with my assuring response. 

I bow in front of the stroller in order to talk a bit with Evey as her parents walk off. She smiles silently in return. I'm glad that we're both confident in my skills. Standing back up, I begin to think about the fact that I've never so much as babysat, let alone tended a child in public. Not to say that I can't handle a few minutes with a three year old, but I feel oddly as if I'm treading onto our rival's football field back during a high school game. I know that I've been invited, but I still don't feel at home.

Having finished with the tangerine, I push the stroller along the aisle. I love big cities and their big open-air markets. Well, at least open-air in name. This market stretches out across the entire bottom story of this skyscraper. It's much cleaner than a similar one that I wandered into last year in Los Angeles with my younger brother. The right wheel of the stroller scrapes smoothly along the wooden crates containing vast quantities of fruit. Its axel somehow manages to avoid getting jammed in any gaps. The signs attached to the crates advertise some remarkably good prices. Mandarin oranges, ten for a dollar? I consider grabbing a few handfuls, but the distance between myself and the plastic sacks on the far wall is enough to dissuade me. 

Approaching the end of the aisle, a round-faced Latino man sees me coming and sidesteps in order to give me room to pass. I take a lot of pleasure in this sense of empowerment. I've assumed a new identity, and now I command a new respect. I begin walking down on the opposite side of the aisle, inspecting the same fruit but from a different angle. 

Having discovered for myself that these fruit are still not interesting, even from another side, I start skating along the ice-cold concrete toward the pastry and candy section with stroller still in hand. These prices are much less reasonable; although the fudge is still particularly tantalizing. 

"Ah, she's adorable," says an elderly woman who catches me in one spot still eying the fudge.

Caught off guard, all I manage to utter is, "Oh, thanks," while thinking, "Yeah, damn right she is."

The old woman is still grinning at Evey as her husband drags her off toward the baker. I suddenly remember that Evey and I will be difficult to find unless we return to the fruit section, so I hang up my imaginary skates and push the stroller responsibly back to my spot near the tangerines just as Jenny arrives.

"No problems?"

"Nope, none at all."

So far and yet so close

The energy of this event is surprisingly dynamic. People are clinging to the oak on my left like flies on a discarded corndog. More are trying in futility to mount the lowest overcrowded branch. Of course. The crowd at the base of the stage is going nuts and trying to create some semblance of a mosh pit. Why must every concert have a mosh pit in order to be a success in the fans' eyes? This phenomenon baffles me all the more when the band is of a thoroughly non-mosh-pit-inducing genre, such as tonight. The moshers are yelling to other members of the crowd in order to perpetuate their ardor, but we in the estranged outer rim keep our eyes averted toward the stage. 

Someone tugs on my shoulder. Expecting to see Jordan standing behind me in his brown hat, I instead come face-to-face with a diminutive red-headed giggling girl and her rotund friend. 

"Can I sit on your shoulders?"

"What?"

"I can't see from here, so can I sit on your shoulders?"

Considering telling her that she should be using "may" instead of "can," I figure that I'll just agree instead. I highly doubt that anything will come of it, even after I say yes.

"Sure."

"Really?"

"Yeah, sure."

I turn back toward the stage, not expecting to hear another word from my ginger friend. And I don't. Well, at least no more words directed toward me. I still hear her talking ecstatically with her portly partner, but she seems to be completely content with having had the guts to have asked me, regardless of follow up. I can't help but be pleasantly pleased with myself as I smirk another few minutes away. 

A few more songs and I find myself shifting my weight from one foot to the other more and more frequently. I'm trying to enjoy this, but three songs of this an hour ago had me satisfied. The rest of my friends, apart from Jordan, seem to be having a ball. I used to have my eyes fixed on the back of their heads, but it's a lost cause now. I'll just have to find them afterward. 

Again, someone is pulling at my shoulder, but this time on my left. I turn my head to find puckered lips perilously close to my own and closing in quickly. 

"Whoa! What are you doing?"

I can smell the alcohol on her breath as she protests to my rejection, "I was just trying to obey your shirt..."

My Kiss Me I'm Irish t-shirt wasn't supposed to be quite this potent. Sure, I had hoped for some potency, but not from the drunken chick now staggering away toward the oak. 

Jordan luckily hasn't noticed my less-than-venerable encounter as he yells at me over the head of a stoner and his girlfriend. "Dude, I found the others!"

I don't really care at this point, but I cast him a questioning shrug anyway, as if to ask where. He waves me over. I tell him I'd rather stay put. I see the others now through the crowd. They're trying to convince me through their gestures that I should reconvene as well. I really don't want to go over there, so I scream to them that it's too far. The stoner's girlfriend swings around to ask me if I know them. 

"Yeah, I do."

"They want you to get over there!"

I insist that it's not important, but she insists that it is.

"No, I'm fine here..." But she's already abandoned her stoned boyfriend and is guiding me by the hand through the crowd. Her grip is surprisingly firm - probably from escorting her boyfriend safely across streets. I have no choice but to follow like a good boy. I should be grateful; the crowd is parting as easily as the Red Sea for my beautiful tour guide. Getting through on my own would have resembled a trout swimming upstream. 

Finally, when only three girls stand between me and my cohorts, she relinquishes her grip, smiles at me genuinely, and commences her return journey. 

Being so close to my forcefully designated destination, I try to make the final few steps. 

"Stop."

"Huh?"

There's a curly-haired girl glaring at me in the face from behind her thick glasses. Her freckles show through even in this dim light. "Stop. I'm sick of assholes like you cutting."

I'm surprised to have finally found such resistance in so unexpected a form. Naturally, I ignore her and press onward. She pushes me back violently, "I will kick your ass if you try to cut through again."

This is obviously a hollow threat, but I'm still taken aback. I pity this girl; she's a die-hard fan of this band and is finally fed up with getting pushed farther and farther back from her pathetic idols up on stage. 

I throw my hands up in mock surrender and say, "Relax. I really don't care that much." 

And really, I don't.

Follow the Ringleader

The loud screech of tires on the runway persuades me to lift my eyes from the book in my lap. I hadn't noticed that we were descending so quickly. But a few minutes ago I was viewing the white expanse below through the window. The woman next to me shuts her book with a thud and whispers something in her daughter's ear. The Girl Who Played with Fire. I haven't read that one yet. Pretending to look out the aerial porthole again, I shift my eyes toward my neighbor and her daughter. The daughter is fairly young; no older than 25, and her ringless finger attests to her general lack of spouse. Her mother, by contrast, is wearing a rather wide and fully diamond-adorned ring. It's no wonder that she's lugging around the jacketed hardcover edition of Stieg Larsson's novel. I disallow my eyes to loiter too long in their direction and look away. The image of her daughter, still curled up against the plane's walls, lingers in my mind. She has been sitting like that for at least four hours. Awake, I'm sure she's feeling cramped.
The spinning of the wheels reverberates through the cabin. The sound reminds me of when I would ride the old red wagon down the hill in front of my house. Every rotation of the wheels seems to be audible, right now and back then. Finally having found time, I lower my gaze back down to my book. I turn the page, seeing that the end of the chapter lies there. I turn it back determined to reach this chapter's end before the seatbelt light loses its orange glow.
Ping, and everyone stands up reaching for their luggage. I'm over 15 rows back and have no hope of exiting within the next five minutes, but the temptation to stand is too great. People begin hurriedly pulling their bags from the overhead compartments. As if they'll be able to escape any more quickly. I watch them carefully as I pull my backpack from under the seat and place each strap over a shoulder.
"Excuse me?"
My frame of thought broken, I glance toward the speaker and find the ringed woman next to whom I had been sitting for hours. "Yeah?"
"Do you see a black jacket there in the overhead?"
"Let me see," I casually tell her while glancing upward. I don't see it, but I hadn't expected to see it immediately. Having boarded first, I had watched where she laid it in the overhead. There's a camouflage bag where it had originally lain. I shove the bag aside and see her black jacket behind, crumpled against the rear of the compartment.
Yanking it out, I hand it to her. "Yeah. Here you go."
"Thank you."
"Yep."
She slides each arm into its sleeve and turns back toward her daughter. She has been sick, so her mother is inquiring as to her health. Her purse now rests in my former seat, so I lean into the chair in front of me.
As expected, each man and woman walks out as the narrow corridor vacates before them. Grabbing my black leather bag, I hold it perpendicularly before myself as I walk down the aisle; it knocking against my knees with each waddling step.
Out in the concourse, my brother fails to answer his phone. Preoccupying myself at the airport's Burger King, I stand behind its fabric railing determining whether or not I'm hungry enough to pay for a meal. While contemplating #3 I feel a tap on my left shoulder.
Turning, a middle-aged man is handing me something telling me that it's free. He walks off before I can request clarification, and looking into my hand I see a voucher of sorts. It's good for one free meal.
"It will work. Any restaurant here in the airport will accept it."
Turning back around, a jumpsuit-clad janitor is casting me a reassuring smile. "Really."