Sidewalks Slick as Silk

Sidewalks Slick as Silk

An impending rain shower with its ominous overhead rumbles did little to discourage the masses from the glistening walkway. Shoppers, businessmen, teenagers, mothers, vagrants, and soon-to-be criminals plowed their way forward in a steady crunch of varying strides.

To my right, a lengthy string of stopped traffic. The vehicles were crawling through the jam-packed intersection ahead at the rate of far too few per signal rotation. A beep here. A squawk of damp brakes there.

To my left, the oncoming throng; faces masked, eyes averted. An umbrella still held aloft from the previous drenching maneuvers within a few inches of eye level. I lean my head away, just in case arthritic hands grasp the handle. No need for my offense to form a crease between my eyes. The woman, with her shawl thrown haphazardly around her shoulders, appears oblivious; gouging out a stranger’s eye less concerning than dinner plans. 

Young and decrepit, wealthy and downtrodden; all swiftly scrunch past while brimming with thoughts and dreams of being anywhere but among the scent of dripping fire escapes and moistened refuse bins. The sidewalk itself is nothing but a highway. 

Does anyone take heed of the cracks? The scars? Twelve or so slabs ahead, just before the next intersection, I know for sure the concrete has risen by the aid of an ambitious tree root. It feeds a sturdy old sugar maple with leaves akin to fairytale stars. 

That massive canopy comes into view. I look up. The colors are shifting. Crisp green to sunset yellow. The wind is blowing now. The starry leaves wave at everyone passing underneath, shedding droplets of pristine water. I wave back with a wan smile. If there were any warm rays slicing through the cloud cover, a hint of a rainbow may have glittered through that curtain of purity. 

I pause for an appreciative breath. 

The breeze also flips a few strands of my hair into my face. My smile grows wide enough to wrinkle the skin on my cheeks, so I continue forward with the encouragement.

A premature leaf flutters to the shoulder of an oncoming woman's wooly coat, promptly flicked away from the reddish fur by fingertips painted the color of gala apples. The strands can breathe again with the breeze; appearing as alive as if it were still attached to the animal it used to shield from northern gusts. The current temperature requires little more than a light jacket for all but the elderly. The middle-aged woman passes by with her gaze pinned to future tasks.

I hug the curb to allow people the required extra distance. Once, my foot slips from a misstep to graze a puddle with swirling cigarette butts at the surface. Wavering for a moment, I catch my balance on a light pole just in time to avoid a soggy shoe. 

No eye takes note. The expected outcome sends me onward.

An elderly man sits hunched over his cane on the bench ahead, staring off above the nothingness of stopped traffic. He is ever the rarity; the only other person taking the time to pause. Like me, he allows what clean air is present among the smog to enter his lungs unobstructed. No one sits by him; is near enough to breathe on him. According to this week’s health guidelines, he is safe. What about tomorrow?

I want to sit with him someday, if it is ever again appropriate. Would he see me smiling if he turned?

That spot is his, always. Even when he isn’t reliving his memories on the weather-worn wood, I never witness another soul on that bench; as if even the tourists know the ghosts of a past life swirl about. Etched into the lines of the man’s faraway, forlorn expression is the story of one who has lived through countless tragedies. Those weary eyes rest on the building across the street, third floor or so. 

Today, I long to finally fill that space beside him. All it would take was a shared gesture of hope; a smile. Both of us may be lifted out of this dreary climate, if only for a few seconds. If anyone would understand the purpose of such a minute interaction, I believed it had to be him. My face with its tasteless scars would not—may not—fluster him as it does so many.

To avoid the wrinkled gentleman, I must either wait for a rotund individual with sullen eyes to pass behind the bench first, or weave my way around the worn old spirit’s front. Do I spoil his view of what could be brighter times; a deceased relative’s house, an old lover’s, or perhaps his own when no limp afflicted him? 

I wait.

The corpulent suited man with his briefcase swaying by his side has a firm voice directed into his device. I can only hear the words, “You better figure it out, or—” when he comes close enough to remove the muffle from the mask inhibiting his speech. Something about him—those pinched eyes as they near… 

My throat locks up. Just hearing his irate tone in such close proximity, moving ever closer,  stifles me. My ancient bench friend blinks a few times to regain the present, his head twitching to locate the source of the spoiled atmosphere. Our eyes almost meet. A mist weeps from overhead. It’s too much for me. 

I dash.

A car honks, and someone yells. At me? I don’t know. My shoddy sneakers rush me to the other side of the street, slapping the pavement in hitched steps to round the corner. In my mind’s eye, I could see the path stretch out before me. Past the bakery, the shoe store, the alley which always reeks of excrement. 

But...what is this scent among the ozone and old beer? Sweet and familiar; I know it.

My pace slows to a trot as I pull in breaths through my unobstructed airway.

Could it be? 

The people flicking their eyes anywhere but to mine—as if simple eye contact could contract a fatal disease—push through, encompassed by their protective bubble of space despite the wonder filling my insides.

I find myself grinning in spite of the chilly hearts that label me an impediment, moving closer to that building with the chipped brick sides. It must be. I can see them now.

The crosswalk signals safe passage. I’m the first one to alight on the opposite side of the street. 

There they are.

Reaching perhaps twenty feet overhead, as if pointing to the leaking masses of gray above, are vines with leaves still showing green in between patches of crumpled brown. Just out of my reach is the source of that sweet-sour scent. The cluster is tiny, and one of the morsels is shriveled, but several orbs are a deep purple.

The treasure of the south; muscadine grapes.

A toothy grin splits my face, my eyes gleaming upward into the spitting sky. Does no one else see? This blessing of nature, struggling to survive in an unfamiliar world providing only the bare minimum as nourishment through filthy cracks, sends a precious message that life continues. There is hope. We can all still be fruitful when trapped in monochrome surroundings. 

It’s too late in the season for fruit such as this. How do I accept the vine’s beloved gift? Perhaps a year ago I could wait for an exceptionally tall individual, flag them down. Pity-filled eyes may have obliged a favor if I asked gently. 

Not now. Contact spreads evil. My damp hair and yesterday’s hand-me-downs work against me.

My head whips around, searching. There must be...there! A box next to a trash heap. It may provide just the right boost. 

I pin myself to the wall for two more people to pass by; all the while, my smile never wavers. Are they sharing in some fraction of my joy? Returning it? I can’t see smiles in their eyes, and trapped mouths have lost their purpose for that encouraging function. My fingers grasp the sides of the wooden crate. It’s heavy, damp. A splinter finds its way into my thumb. I ignore it.

The box settles beneath the vine, my eyes shoot upward. Light cuts through a break in the clouds. Surely I can reach it; reach them.

My troubled leg protests the motion of climbing more even than running. Pain burns through my knee when fully bent. Still, I make it up on top of the box. My fingers stretch—brush a grape.

Can I jump? Just a hop is all it would take. I suck in extra oxygen. Both feet leave the sturdy surface. The cluster is in my hand, the healthy bunch resting in my grip. Exuberance glows through me upon descent.

The top of the box splinters inward. I fall. Searing pain travels along the side of my good leg. Internal? External? I’m afraid to look.

The grapes are clutched to my chest as I fight tears. I’m crumpled over the box, sitting on the edge of it. A memory slices through my former joy.

A man’s energy presses down on me, his voice booming down with rage. He points to my bleeding injury; my now ruined leg. I don’t know what exactly he's saying. The gist is more than enough. My carelessness caused him trouble, money, inconvenience.

I can’t go back there. Not ever. These streets are my comfort. They provide stability. Predictable. Safer.

But now? What am I to do? A tear trickles through my squinted shut eyes. Dare I survey the damage my actions have once again caused my body?

Splintered wood greets my vision first. Gingerly, I move the largest piece aside. Crimson is visible at mid-calf. Just a cut? Adrenaline from shooting high to low sends dizziness through my panic. Please, don’t let me pass out here. I hug my head between my knees, peeking into the top at the rest of my leg.

I think it’s okay. The spots are clearing from in front of my eyes. As long as I can still walk, no one has to know. Could I still walk? Gathering the courage to pull both my legs out of the ruined box took several hundred passing footsteps. I counted each one, breathing in and out.

With both feet now on the ground, I stared at them. Boots and heels, sneakers and brogues scuffed by. The sounds of traffic and umbrellas being undone for their respective owners met my ears. Each for their own. Predictable to the end.

A pair of shoes stopped in front of me—pointed to me. A wooden cane paused beside them.

My first instinct was to wince, but I managed to raise my eyes.

The man from the bench. His pitying smile was for my situation, not for my countenance. Astute eyes traveled from my newly injured leg to the scars lining my other one. A hand reached down. 

My mouth fell too wide for such close contact with another human. Would he truly touch me? Help me? Even now when doing so allowed microscopic demons to transfer from one person to another?

My widened gaze stared at the wrinkled skin of his palm. Before touching it, I knew it would be warm and soft. I took it, allowing him to help me up. I was right. 

The pain in my leg was trumped by the light of his kindness. Only then did I remember the grapes in my other hand. I held them out to him but he shook his head in gentle refusal.

Just as so many times before, my words jumbled in my head before they freed themselves from my throat. Individuals with ample space around them passed us, also leaving a safe amount of space. 

The old man and I were no longer two segregated forms. It was too late for us now, but neither of us cared. Our joined hands parted my tears. My own smile returned the gift of his multitude of wrinkles.

When words finally formed, I said, “Please, tell me the story of the building in front of the bench.”

Tears glittered behind those ancient eyes, but he nodded once. He spoke with a hoarse but pleasant voice as our footfalls fell in broken step; the click of a cane assisting us both.