Stationary

Of course, as usual, I am assuming the worst. That devious, familiar feeling is creeping up the back of my neck against the neverending flow of beaded sweat. I give another yank on the coarse fabric of the dog’s leash, digging my heels into the ground and feining control. Still an unfamiliar companion to the pup, I’m unwilling to lean into full aggression, and perhaps that’s the reason for my persistent lack of success. A glance at my phone proves that I’ve been standing in this same spot on the busy walkway for an impossible twenty minutes. My eyes linger on the colorful awnings above the surrounding shops, refusing to meet the curious gaze of strangers as they pass by. Regardless of whether our stares intersect, I know that they are all regarding the situation with the same amused condescension. Observation One: A large labrador lounges stubbornly on the stained sidewalk. Who could blame him? The sun is beating down relentlessly and the air is torturously heavy. He doesn’t have to see the reports to know that this is the hottest day of the year, he can feel it in his thick black coat, in his sensitive pads. He has shown his disappointment in the unseasoned walker with unwavering limbs and heavy sighs. He is no doubt dreaming of the pet store a few yards away, its intoxicating scents, fantastically stocked shelves, and most importantly: the blunt, unsparing wave of air conditioning. Observation Two: A young woman stands impatiently to the side, refusing to allow even an inch of slack on the leash. She is dressed in the only way suitable for this type of heat yet remains sweating and exasperated. Proof of her exhaustion pools beneath her arms and collects on her top lip as she consistently checks her phone with a furrowed brow. In seconds, each onlooker completes a subconscious scientific method: make the observations and analyze the data. The analysis concludes: This woman is completely out of her realm of capability.

Really, the dog- Milo- is an angel of a creature and this fact humiliates me all the further. I have seen Milo walk eagerly alongside his owner’s energetic stride, submitting to every gentle demand, suggestive tug, or even a minor shift in direction. I have seen him sit patiently just outside the bustling perimeter of the kitchen. Even with drool hanging from his jaw like a string of glass pearls, I have seen him expertly deny himself the pleasure of leaping forward and masticating his owner’s dinner. I have seen him dance at the door with domesticated fervor, exhibiting a tender desire to leave, somehow intertwined with an understanding indifference. As if to say, I would love to! But, truly, don’t feel like you must. With his sedated demeanor, Milo abides by routine, often looking down on unruly pups like a mature older brother. An example to all, he simply cannot be bothered with the trivial rebellions of others. 

And yet here we are. This dutiful pet has succumbed to the heat after only a block and a half. Resting his chin on his large paws, he looks up at me in a way that suggests this stunt has less to do with the temperature and much more to do with his putting me in my place. 

It’s a comical scene and maybe a common one, too. So why must I assume the worst? Why must I guess that this means I have incompetencies extending far beyond my inability to walk a dog? Why do I feel as though this individual failure is leading an army of its relatives through my body as I stand, helpless to their domination?

I have just moved to this city, six months into age twenty-three, and restless to begin… well… something. Living out of a scant secondhand suitcase, I have shoved myself into the corner of a dusty, affordable sublet with tall, white walls and a nonexistent sum of natural light. I have nothing to show for myself except a useless, year-old English degree. This degree- one that I dedicated immeasurable hours of exhausting library visits, excruciatingly boring conversations, and all-consuming anxiety to- seems to be aging by the second. What once sounded impressive and exhilarating is curling at the edges and greying rapidly, becoming a futile tool in defending my place in the world. I’ve stood idly by as I just graduated turned into I recently graduated and eventually into I’m a barista. A year ago, I had looked out at the world stretching before me in a flurry of phantom job offers and magazine publications, poetry workshops and book deals, funded PhD programs, and research mentorships. I saw myself in a classroom, working one-on-one with my favorite authors and professors, imagining candlelight desks filled with wide-open literature, my name at the top of a seventy-five-page, award-winning thesis. Now, just a year later, my possibilities already seem to be dwindling. The academic sphere where I once excelled failed to provide me with a shred of proper funding, leaving me empty-handed and scrambling to start from scratch. I spent those months in a ferocious state of absolute panic, veiled insufficiently with an uneasy air of fraudulent optimism. Yes, I’m so excited to be trying new things! Yes, this is exactly where I’ve always planned to be! A week at a summer camp proved to be alarmingly ill-fitting for me as I fumbled to make small talk with my fellow leaders and grappled with inspiring wonder among the campers. A spontaneous stint at a local organic farm left my skin sunburned and peeling, forever haunted by the imagined ghosts of ticks. I can still smell the frantic whisps from hay bails escaping in the breeze, still taste the fresh strawberries that I harvested- ever so slowly- in those dew-soaked mornings. After admitting my defeat with both physical labor and child care, I eventually returned to the reliable coffee shop job that I had maintained as a student. I worked late nights, plastering a smile on my face to serve the night owl customers, cleaning up spills, and pouring that sweet, white froth to the tops of paper-lined cups with expert finesse. What once was a suitable side hustle was now just embarrassing, emerging as perhaps my sole talent now that there weren’t any tests to take or papers to write. My past classmates met me for brief breakfast dates or worse, they met my LinkedIn feed. Through their professional dialect and carefully curated emojis, I was informed of their endless success. I am happy to share… I spent months reading this repetitive, watered-down snippet from the cafe break room, hunched over my screen and frowning against the invasive, corporate-owned security cameras. 

In a major escape from it all, I managed to move to the city in the single room of a preoccupied yet frequently vacant apartment. In exchange for housing, I was tasked with watching over their soft, sleepy pets- not a difficult deal at all. In the four days post-move-in, I have occupied myself with hours of solitary job hunting, ambling through the brick alleys of my newfound home. I’ve quickly gotten used to it: the way I can watch entire days pass by over the paper edges of my favorite books, the way I can explore street after street and somehow never once find an overflowing coffee shop that isn’t properly staffed, the way the urban streets melt and sizzle into the summer haze. I’ve been dwelling on park benches at the reflection of the New York skyline, going for runs through the ever-busy walkways, perching on picnic benches outside of the bookstore, imagining myself as a main character living off last season’s paychecks. In other words, I have gotten far too comfortable far too quickly. I’ve ignored doubt’s mischievous face at it peaks from behind a nearby wall, already satisfied with its upcoming plans. 

But now this. The summer is gnawing at the skin of the city, hinting at more sinister days to come. And I am trapped here, between pet store and apartment, a hesitant scoop of sorbet diminishing into a puddle. 

Deflated, I crouch down to meet Milo’s eye level. At this point, I have tried all possible combinations of persuasion: offering a treat in an upbeat tone, saying his name with an illusioned authority, tugging on his collar with a sturdy hand, and even throwing my hands up in frustration as if this act of body language will be properly translated to a dog. With elbows resting on my knees and feet flat on the concrete, I look into his sleepy, dark eyes. “Who’s going to win, buddy?” I whisper, “You or me?” 

What I’m really asking is: Who is stronger? Me or this insatiable savage they call adulthood? Will I swim to the surface of this tumultuous city or will I continue in my struggle to simply tread water? Will these brief moments of humiliation and frustration multiply and enlargin into the fate of my worst imagination? Am I destined to be consumed by my own shortcomings? 

Miraculously, Milo stands.