backfire

A man and child are throwing paper airplanes back and forth. Above me, a veteran is dragging heavy footsteps and wheels across the floor, casting bright reflections by my bare feet. I am winning this game! the child exclaims, throwing a sharp edge deep into the ground, convinced that no one will beat him. His dark and underdeveloped feet fly over the dark carpet that so inefficiently covers the wooden interior of this old building, once a factory. The paper plane hits my foot as the child feigns confusion, Why you throw it over THERE, grandpa? His, You told me to throw it over there! is filled with laughter as his heart explodes with love for this boy that resembles everything he was six decades ago. I pick it up and throw it back as it sails smoothly through the thick air, veering to the left and landing at the child’s right foot. I am rewarded with a tiny mouthful of teeth and the most genuine sprinkle of laughter that I’ve heard in years.

The man from the other day is back, his jacket is missing. Today he is dressed nicely, a grey button down desperately in need of the heat of an iron, navy blue pants. He looks shocked, I am not surprised at all. His white socks are awkwardly peering out from behind his dark muddy shoes as he sits at the table and stares at me without once breaking contact. Damn, he’s good. I am unsure of my comfort level but I no longer feel the urge to run away, perhaps I am simply void of energy, of any sort of desire to disappear. I admire the red hair he so proudly shows today, observing how it contrasts fluidly with the dull grey that covers his large body. I am reading about jazz while he is folding his right hand under his left, his left hand under his right. I am twisting my feet in an anxious jumble while he is staring at my face intently, searching for any sort of emotion, expecting to see fear and disgust but seeing pleasant understanding instead. I am trying to process words but I feel the awkwardly loud presence of another’s eyes, conspicuously soaking in all that exists. I have had enough and raise mine to meet his, smile brightly and almost immediately send a sea of crimson rushing across his face, an electrical charge to his legs that lifts him out of his seat in a frenzied stupor. He stumbles to the store that sells comic books, or perhaps the record store covered in dust, and his journey is completed by several glances over his shoulder, meeting of the eyes, a transfer of energy, of knowledge and odd familiarity. Silently I thank him.

red fingernails & hair

I carefully walked down the broken sidewalk to preserve the soft curls I so hastily created, to give him a chance to turn the wheel before I crossed the busy street. I smelled the blunt air, heard birds being welcomed into the world, and watched as they pushed open their heavy outlets in the hopes of a single gust of warm air. Instead they felt the harshness of a youthful spring struggling to hold on. Immersed in this quietly simple world, I failed to notice the man towering over me in a 49ers jacket stained with the filth of his life, its fibers desperately reaching for fresh odors to swallow. He stared silently at me, a patch of fiery warmth hanging down to the bulge in his throat, his hands nervously moving his hat over his unwashed head, soaking up the life he needed to let go of, like a mother of the lost youth she sees in her child riding his bike down a road that is unmatched in length. His eyes ran side to side, up and down, and not once did he remove them from his target, a young woman seemingly unable to go disregarded.

I pretend not to notice as a cold chill penetrates my flesh. It is all too familiar but this time I fail to quicken my step as my eyes furiously scan the world for curious bystanders. He is behind me now, allowing me to smell the unused washer, the cold misery, the stifled warmth. I concentrate on the man trimming the greens, the painter on the roof struggling to cover the harshness of the wind that we try to escape with the strongest winces we can muster. I feel a hand brush across the back of my shoulder as I keep walking, I don’t look until I feel a second chill rushing down my spine, covering my lower back, radiating down my legs.

As the tips of a stranger’s fingers graze thin fabric, she flinches and races to her destination. She turns slowly to face the man who provides such familiar discomfort, such violating intimacy, looks him directly in the eye with pleasant disgust as he runs his broken finger through a single ringlet that the wind has separated from its comfortable cluster. His eyes are empty, as empty as his unsympathetic mouth, his hands impolite and scarred, his face hidden by the same fiery warmth that dips downward and blossoms into an uncivil creature of rage and anxiety, desire and confusion. She sees the self-loathing in his stature, the conformity he distastefully rejects, the longing he resentfully displaces, the beauty he inappropriately recognizes. She understands, but not before the painter notices and forces a yell from up above. Everything okay? Feet are quickly moving over the broken pavement, he is running, he is slowly walking away. She knows, she turns, he knows, nobody really knows. She understands, she always understands.