Pedestrian Life

In a pedestrian life, the wide expanse of the sky is a brewing jumble of gray; charcoal, ashy, pewter, slate, smoke, iron - all tumbling into the unknown to form undistinguishable clouds and puffs of in-between monochrome that cast a gloomy pallor over porcelain, rosy, golden-brown, or deep mahogany complexions shrouded by ever-present smog and a growing sense of what-could-have-been. In a pedestrian life, the tumbling streets are sticky with ash, smoke-tasting grit, sweetly rotting contents of days-old trash bags, and black patches of chewed-up and wasted gum packets, swept by panhandlers with rimmed caps pulled low over grimy foreheads and weary eyes, but never showing visible signs of progress. 

In a pedestrian life, there are taxis, cars, buses, and trains rumbling across the sleepy city, wheels grinding and screeching against smeared and sodden ground. A cab’s filthy yellow skin is drenched the further it winds through bustling urban streets filled with a cacophony of noise; clamoring peddlers, shrieking city buses with grease-palmed handrails grown warm through the human touch, and the questioning voices of the masses roaring past twining tendrils of sooty fog to tumble into the abyss of perpetual sound. 

When household clocks rotate their spindly hands to face six o’clock, thousands of purposeful footsteps precede the breaking of a pink-tinted morning that can barely be seen past the faceless gray. Pedestrians – scurrying to catch rides to corporate offices or glass-windowed conference rooms, balancing cups of scalding-hot coffee atop laptops and accounting books, finishing calls with co-workers while fidgeting with jacket buttons or purse clasps – all with eyes forged from steel and faces carved of stone. A cycle of departing, the buzz of activity within a city cooking beneath fumes and a watery sun, then returning in a haze of worn-down feet lugging bags of fresh groceries for supper. 

There are patches of variety within the monotony, however. On the northeast corner of the city, shaded by scaly-barked oak trees and populated by sparse, thinning grass, there lies a park peppered with dust-touched benches – save for one. Bordered by blooming, royal purple wisteria, scratched brown shoes resting in the dirt, withered hands clasped and still, sits a man on this ancient park bench, his slight figure wrapped in an overly large plaid shirt. A snow-white beard tickles the top of his chest even as a murky wind sweeps the park, but he is quiet. Calm. Patient. Round black sunglasses obscure his eyes, winking tiny rays of light, bright stars amongst the gray, shapeless buildings that tower above the city and its people. His gnarled white fingers, like the obsidian talons of the shining crow that flies overhead on sharp-edged wings, curl deeper into the folds of his coat.

Such is the way of things for many, many days. Voices and vehicles, smells and sounds, tangling and intertwining to form a rhythm of life. The city and its people pass on in its endless revolution of departing, working, returning, and bold, brash, and bright, never ceasing but for the latter pausing at the sight of this unchangeable, immovable man seated like a stone on his bench, watching pedestrians go their separate ways. 

Many questions are asked, of course. “Are you okay, mister?” loudly queries a little boy coerced into accompanying his impatient mother to work. With sticky fingers and clumps of dog hair on his ragged sweater, he studies this old watcher of the city with fresh suspicion and curiosity composite in his dark irises. “What is that?”

The slightest shift, an imperceptible change in the way he sits; perhaps the twitch of his legs, or the movement of his arm to cover the object that lay in his lap, obscured by layers of plaid, and then he peers back at the boy. “I’m alright,” he says in a soft, whispery voice as thin as paper. “You take care, now.”

“But-”

“Cole, come,” scolds the mother, who gathers her son to her chest and hurries him away with nary a glare at the old man, who merely leans back on the bench and allows himself to shut his eyes beneath the gray eye of the sun. 

Here and there, honest and true concern. “Do you need help?” pants a jogger who halts in a screech of rubber-coated tennis shoes and cold sweat. 

The old man’s eyes glassily dilate behind his sunglasses as he stares past the wisteria and into the honking chaos of the street, eclipsed with the vibrancy of spoken life. When he finally speaks, he breathes long and deep, sucking in lungfuls of spring city air, the creased lines of his face folding inward: “To tell you the truth, I’m a little old. A little tired. I’m just catching my breath, if that’s alright with you.”

The jogger nods in acknowledgment and continues on his way, but casts one last fleeting glimpse at the gentleman, as if expecting a terrible outburst of violence to erupt. 

Instead, he nestles further into his plaid shirt and continues to stare at the city beyond him.

Eventually there comes a time when individuals stand from their desks, work out the kinks in their necks and muscles, collect their empty coffee cups and discarded sandwich plastic wrap, sling their bags over their shoulders, and proceed to the lonely elevators, the swarming, evening-lit streets, and body-packed trains to make the arduous journey home. 

To Cole, home is a haven where he can collapse into his bed, snuggle into his pajamas, and soundly read Good Night, Moon Bear cuddled beside his mother. To the jogger, home is where he can peel off his track shoes, shower off accumulated grime, and reflect upon all of the things he has seen and done during the day, when the city came alive and he encountered a strange homeless man. 

This man in question still sits on his park bench, surrounded by honeysuckle and wisteria. With a single, bare-touched look, there is nothing more than meets the eye. But in his face is the rapt desire to drink in the sights, sounds and smells before him, as if there is nothing more important to do in his fading life than to become starry-eyed by the golden glow of lights beginning to illuminate the city’s dark-night hours, competing with the shine of the comets that streak past the haze of gray smog. 

But there comes a time when the sound of quiet, hesitant footsteps reaches the park, and there stands a young, lovely woman still untouched by the ravages of work and the world. Her dark hair blends into deepening shadows, and the unrippled pools of her silver-coin eyes contain more regret than any pedestrian should have. “Papa,” she murmurs softly into the glimmering, hot breath of the city. “Come on.”

“It’s so beautiful.” Barely a whisper, ringing loud across the six feet that lay between them. “You don’t see it, but she…she would have.”

The young woman waits with the patience she can afford him, and deep in her heart, she hopes that one day, she will be able to understand what he is saying with the clear and defined magnitude of this moment. Here, now, standing in a park in a city in the world, watching a beloved old man begin to fade away.

“They thought I was homeless.” His gnarled fingers shake as he reaches up to remove his sunglasses, revealing perfect eyes the color of silver coins, yet clouded by time. “But they don’t know how alive this city can be. I see them all - all of those people walking those streets, living ordinary lives without stopping to look at what’s around them. I see it. I see it all.”

Perhaps she will never truly know the weight that his words will carry. But looking at her father, a shell of his previous life, taken to wandering and watching and winding on and on down an unknown path, she feels extreme sorrow, but also the slightest bit of peace. 

“Papa,” she says, holding out her hand. It is a white beacon that glows in the husky night air. “Let’s go home.”

Through his cloudy eyes, he sees his daughter, a girl become a woman, holding her hand to him and beckoning for him to stand. 

At first, he resists. The city, this city, his city - there will never be a life beyond this one that matches the power of the people he sees around him. The boy, the mother, the jogger, thousands of pedestrians traveling different routes and chasing separate purposes - 

Perhaps he too is a pedestrian of his own making. 

So he stands, creaky limbs protesting after long days of solitude with his park bench and the blooming wisteria, and takes her hand. 

“Let’s go home,” he agrees, as all pedestrians eventually do.