Our Place

Summer is dragging on. It’s only been about a month, but I am already bored out of my god-damned mind. I guess I could spew out some killer analogy (“summer is dragging on like blah blah blah”), but the boredom has killed far too many of my brain cells. Or maybe it’s just the sweltering summer heat. Who has the energy for analogies, really? My body is about 99% sweat right now.

Parker Park (seriously, who comes up with these names?) is pretty dead today. What day is it again? I think it’s Tuesday. No phone to check the date. The splash pad’s been broken since 2021. Dad said something about budget cuts and politics and no money to fix it. Course, I’m too old for that nonsense anyway. Twelve year olds don’t play in little baby splash pads. “Young women” like me, well, we do “young women things”, whatever that means. Apparently that just means being insanely bored all the time.

I shoulda gone away to camp like Dani. When Dad suggested it, I laughed at him. Camp? Seriously? Crap. Wish I had a re-do now. At least camp has a pool.

Instead I find myself kicked out of the house for the morning. Dad has a Zoom meeting, so he needs absolute silence. I mean, I coulda just watched Netflix with my headphones on, right? But anyway…

Parker Park. Maybe once, like a million years ago, this place was fun for kids. Now? Nah, not so much. Like I said, the splash pad’s a goner. There’s a swing set. There’s one of those little circle things that kids sit on and spin around till they throw up. Of course, the handles on just about everything are metal, so today no kids dare to touch anything. I think there used to be a sandbox over there. Now, it’s just a pile of sand (no box) mixed with dirt and cigarette butts. Wow, fun!

The weirdest “feature” of Parker Park is the old payphone off in the corner by the bench underneath the tree. That right there tells you how dated this park is. Yeah. Has anyone used that phone in, like, decades? Do they know what year it is?

Okay, I gotta be honest though - I’m kinda curious. And bored. So bored. So I walk up to the phone to check it out.

Looks like it’s AT&T. Or used to be. Now just AT&. The second T has completely rubbed off. And fifty cents to make a phone call? I can’t decide if that’s too cheap or too expensive. Can it even accept calls? I’m skeptical.

I pick up the receiver - I think that’s what this thing’s called. I hear a dial tone. Faint, kind of muted. But the phone does actually seem to work.

Well, that was fun. Killed a good 45 seconds, too. I go to walk away, then notice a Post-It taped to the side of the phone. The writing’s faded, courtesy of the sunlight. But still legible - it probably hasn’t been there too long. I run my thumb over the writing, and read aloud to myself.

“If Sarita calls… tell her I love her… and to meet me at Our Place… 8 on the 19th.”

Huh? That’s weird.

I have some questions, mister Post-It. Who’s Sarita? Who’s this from? Where’s their place? Eight AM or PM? And the nineteenth of which month?

My summer just got a little - and I stress a little - more interesting.

—

That was three days ago. Sadly, with nothing better to do this summer, I’ve been back everyday since. I’ve hung out at the bench near the phone. Just hoping it will ring. My life is that sad.

I even brought a magazine, last month’s Guitar World. No, I don’t actually play - I just like imagining a world where I was interesting enough to play an instrument. I considered a book - I suppose I do have summer reading - but nah. I’ll start my reading later. Damn, I wish dad would let me have a phone. Not that I really have anyone to text, with Dani off at camp. But at least I could browse social or the internet or something.

It’s been three days. Not a single freakin’ phone call has come in. Sorry dude, whoever Sarita is, I don’t think she wants to talk to you.

Yet… I really want to know what will happen. Like, more than I’d admit outloud. Call me a sucker for a good love story, if that’s what this is. I want Sarita and mystery payphone guy (or girl) to live happily ever after.

The past few mornings, I’ve gotten here to the park around eight. A lot earlier than I’d normally wake up, but the note mentioned meeting at eight. Unsure whether that’s in the morning or evening, I figure this couple may be morning people. Hence the 8:00 arrival time. But no calls. I’ve stayed late too, well past eightish, packing my own lunch and taking super quick bathroom breaks. I’d love to say Dad is wondering what I’ve been up to, but nope, he hasn’t asked. Too caught up in his own little world to worry about little old me. I think he’s just happy I’m outside.

Last night I even tried finding Sarita online. Oh boy. The name Sarita has origins in Hebrew, Hindi, and Spanish. It’s a really common name in India, and in case you didn’t know otherwise, there are a lot of Indian people in the world nowadays. The chances of me finding this particular Sarita, even in this relatively small midwest city full of white people, with absolutely no other information? Nada.

It’s a pretty name though. Good for Sarita.

—

It’s now the seventeenth of July. The big day, the nineteenth, is in two days - and that’s assuming the note hasn’t been there for months. It’s after nine and my shift in Parker Park is finished for the day. I’m wandering the streets of the city, literally kicking rocks in frustration. Sarita still hasn’t called. Mystery payphone man (or woman) is going to be heartbroken, wherever and whoever he or she is.

This has been one of the hottest summers on record. The whole city just seems to be slugging along, putting out the minimal effort so as to not overheat. Some stores are open, but most have just shut down for the day. It’s eerily quiet around town.

I’m wandering the streets, looking into the windows. Real estate office. Coffee shop. Phone store. Dry cleaners. All-night diner named…

Wait a minute.

The all-night diner’s named “Our Place”. Huh.

—

It’s 7:56 PM on July 19th and I walk into Our Place.

I was here this morning too, at eight AM. My gut told me the person would be there in the evening, but I needed to be sure. So I came in the morning - but no one of interest entered. I sat there for an hour, sipping a water and nibbling on some hash browns and bacon. Reading the same Guitar World magazine. No Sarita. No one other than a few truckers and parents unsure where else to take their little kids.

But eight PM is different. I realize it immediately. Sitting at a table near the door is an elderly Indian man. Despite the heat, he’s wearing an old gray suit. The tie is messy, like he doesn’t have too much experience tying one. His hair, gray and thinning by the second, is slicked back. He has a thick gray mustache, and thick gray eyebrows to match. He’s squinting, like he wears glasses normally but for some reason opted not to wear them tonight. I can smell his cologne from the door. Musky and citrus. He’s holding a small bouquet of flowers, with a price tag on it from the dollar store down the street.

Well well well, we found our mystery man.

I seat myself at the next table, at an angle so I can see both the man and the door. And then I wait.

I’m not sure what I’m waiting for. I guess there’s a chance Sarita called and talked to someone else, either before I discovered the note or during the precious few moments in the past couple weeks when I haven’t been holding vigil over the payphone. So there’s a chance someone else passed the message along to her, and Sarita’s going to just waltz in here and embrace her lover.

But let’s be realistic - she hasn’t called. She’s not coming.

But I wait regardless. And the man goes from hopeful to skeptical to doubtful to defeated pretty quickly. He’s figured it out himself. Sarita’s not coming.

After about twenty minutes, I start to wonder if I should say something. Now, I’m not normally the most social kid. I’m pretty quiet, fairly intimidated by anyone I don’t know. It’s definitely out of character for me to just start talking to some old Indian guy.

But these past few weeks have been out of character for me. Again, I blame the boredom. So what the hell… I stand up and approach the guy.

“Umm, excuse me?”

He’d been looking sadly down at the dollar store bouquet. He looks up. There’s a half second of hope in his eyes, even as he knows I’m clearly not her.

“Yes?” His voice is raspy. Quiet. Meek.

“Did you leave a note on the payphone in Parker Park? A note for Sarita?”

He nods. I notice the glimmer of tears in his eyes. He’d been fighting back crying just now. I continue.

“I saw the note. A week or two ago… And I’ve been around that park a lot since. Ya know, to see if she calls.”

His eyes widen. He allows himself another morsel of hope. Hope that I’ve spoken to her.

“I’m sorry... She never called.”

He looks down. Raises his hand to his face and wipes his eyes. He nods again, and looks back up at me.

I expect him to say something, but he doesn’t. He just looks too sad to speak.

I wonder what led him to leave a message at an old payphone in the park. Why he felt this was the best or only way for her to reach him. Why he couldn’t keep an eye on the phone himself. Why he didn’t leave a number. Why he didn’t even specify the damn month. But I have a feeling I’m not going to get these answers from him just now.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Charles.” I still haven’t gotten more than one word at a time from him.

“I… those flowers are really pretty. That was nice of you to get those.” I have absolutely no idea what to say to this guy.

He nods solemnly. I feel so bad. There must be something I can do?

“I’m so sorry. Do you… do you want a hug?”

He gives a small smile. He shakes his head no.

“Okay, well…”

Then he stands up. He’s shorter than I expected. Even at twelve I’m taller than him. And I’m not particularly tall.

Charles steps towards me, lifting his arms just the slightest. At first I’m unsure what he’s doing, but then it hits me - yeah, he would like a hug after all.

Now, normally I don’t go around hugging older men, whatever the circumstance. But today I make an exception. I give him as comforting a hug as I can muster - our family’s never been big huggers, so I don’t have much practice. Charles gives some half-hearted embrace where he just steps into me. He keeps his arms extended, never closing them in on me. The whole time that flower bouquet is still in his hand, meekly trembling.

The hug lasts about ten seconds, and he retreats. He smiles. Sort of. Not really with his eyes, just with his mouth. It’s really freaking sad. My eyes well up a little.

“Well… I hope you find her. Someday. You seem nice. You deserve to be happy.”

I’m just winging it at this point, eager to be done and on my way. Charles nods, and I turn and walk out of the diner.

I look back as I leave, and Charles has resumed his faithful post at the table, fiercely clutching his bouquet, adjusting his tie, and continuing to monitor the door.

Poor guy.

—

A few weeks later, I’m killing time in the evening, again walking the streets in the summer heat. Bank. Dollar store. Travel agency (really?). Tailor.

For the first time in a month, I pass the Our Place diner. I pause in front, considering going in for a snack or something. I’d eaten there just that one morning last month, and honestly the food wasn’t great. There has to be better places to get a bite to eat, right?

As I decide, I glance into the diner. Sitting at a table near the door is an older Indian woman. She’s wearing a worn orange sari. Her hair is short and white, showcasing dangly orange earrings. Her gaze has not broken from the door.

No way…

For about the millionth time, I wish I had a phone. What day is it today? It’s gotta be around the third week of August, right? Could it be the nineteenth? And what time is it? The sun hasn’t set yet. I never had dinner, and am getting pretty hungry. Could it be eight or so?

A couple of men walk by, and I call out. “Excuse me? What’s today’s date? And the time?”

Each was already looking at their phones as they strolled by. One guy answers.

“It’s the nineteenth. And 8:11 PM.”

Ohmygod. This is her. This is Sarita. She’s here, she’s here. But… she’s a month late.

Charles. I don’t see him in there. He’s not here.

I don’t know what I’m going to say. I have no god-damn idea.

But I open the door and walk into the diner.