Traveling Back

“That’s the thing about this city - the transit sucks, the culture’s disappearing, and the authentic people are tougher to find. So, do me a favor and be transparent for a second, okay? Let’s pretend our conversation is an episode of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, and instead of telling me “I don’t know” or “I’m not sure,” just tell me yes or no, to the following question: The over/under for LA and Dallas is 33, are you putting it down, or not?”

“No, I’ll pass.”

“Okay, good luck.”

“Unbelievable, the guy calls wanting to make a bet, but filibusters for 10-minutes like he’s Chewbacca looking at a Wendy’s menu.”

I hear the comment and smirk, as I notice another customer walk into the place. The guy hangs his head while I put my wallet away and look closely at my earbuds, focusing to put each one on the correct side, per usual after shopping, prior to walking down the street.

I notice the guy’s bike helmet seems a viscous sort of green that would be the color of an Encyclopedia Britannica left in a dusty basement for 15-years. I assume the guy is right-handed, because he quickly releases the strap from his neck, holding it with his left and undoing the buckle with his right. The man expresses a sigh of relief, which I assumed was because he made it to the place safely.

“How’d everything go?” The store owner asks.

The phone rings and the clerk say to the guy, “Hold on, gimme a sec.”

I walk toward the door, perpendicular to the four people in the store.

As I go to exit, I hear the clerk say on the phone, “Yea who is it?” He follows, “What do ya want now?”

The reflection of the clerk sits on the window in my view as I open the metal door, still warm from the guy’s touch. I’m glad I finally guessed correct in pulling, not pushing. As one of my feet hits the concrete and the door begins to shut, I hear the clerk once again.

“You can’t get rid of a shadow by scrubbin’ it with fuckin’ clorox; if ya wanna get rid of a big shadow ya need an even bigger light.”

Walking down the block, beneath the many shop signs 12-feet above my head, noticing the aromas of a local pizza shop and bakery with the hazelnut coffee I always wanted to try but never did, I pass the local florist’s store with the old man still sitting outside in a plastic white chair, though now mostly grey from the flurries of cigar ashes. For the first time, I see the man with a shirt on, the Old Navy 2000 classic grey, and a Yankee cap sitting just above his forehead.

Two goldfinches remain perched atop the window, below the aging gutters of the hardware store, opposite my side of the street. I notice a single crow on the clay bricked fireplace attached to the coffee shop next door, scanning the landscape, 15-feet above its neighbors. A lot of people frequent the coffee spot; apparently their wi-fi is pretty good.

I hear the train beneath my feet as I approach the metal covering on the sidewalk, thinking once again how the metal looks like chicken-wire or a drying rack from when I would make oatmeal, chocolate chip cookies as a kid. The train leaves as my foot hits the metal casing on the ground, closely missing the breeze of rust and jagged metal from the depths below. The scents always seem like cotton candy mixed with popcorn and seasoned flakes of aging copper.

A block away, on the same side of the street, I see a 10-year old boy wearing blue jeans, a Harry Potter t-shirt, and raggedy new balance sneakers that look as though they’ve either been in the dirt or an oven long enough to be able to qualify for a damn rental car. He turns to enter one of my favorite bodegas, with the cat, C.W. hanging out in front. I assume the son of the owner, Silva, is stocking jars of peanut butter in the middle aisle, next to the pasta sauce and canned green beans, like he always is when I would visit. He sometimes laughs at the distant expiration date on canned products, but quickly works to stop as laughter hurts his back when he sits on one knee and leans down at the bottom shelf. Though sometimes he’ll sit on one of the spare boxes.

C.W. quickly gets up as the kid’s foot goes to enter the place. He gives a strong growl, shows his teeth, and quickly throws a paw at the kid. The kid clenches his hands to his chest in fear, and the cat continues to throw haymakers in succession. The kid runs in the other direction as the cat sits back down.

I soon approach the bodega, secretly hoping the cat will react with excitement seeing me again, while also thinking that it’s unlikely because C.W. only ever walked near me or stared at me when I would fumble my wallet in the store, with 68 cents always falling out, leaving sharp vibrations through the building, opposite the church bells that would often sing four consecutive notes around 5pm - the time I would typically visit. My faded timberlands, covered by the trampled bottom edges of my blue jeans remain at eye level with the cat, while my heavy hoodie and hat sit on par with the SUV’s parked on the sidewalk. As I pass the establishment, C.W. glances at me for a brief moment and looks away.

My emotions tell me the nonverbal exchange was longer, but regardless, a feeling of disappointment shifted my body’s temperature, almost as if I had a syringe and mainlined a hefty dose of despondency. When I’m about ten feet past the place, I look back at C.W., smiling. For whatever reason, his head swivels in my direction, and it seems like he smiled in one way or another, I can’t tell. I drudge a few stones of sidewalk more and notice a big truck at my 12 o’clock. I look into one of the mirrors without realizing the gaze and expect to see myself – instead, I see C.W. looking in my direction, smiling.

I glance at the concrete, both ashamed of the importance of my connection with the cat and gratified by the recognition of the relationship we’ve built over time.  

As I approach the next intersection, I lower the volume of my music, with the lyrics, “My dedication and my commitment’s beginning-less, I could go four quarters or nine-innings for this” slowly fading from my ears.

Around this point I would usually hear tunes from outdoor merchants, entrepreneurs, and people on the sidewalk or at restaurants a few blocks up – but the sounds have disappeared.

No one seems to be around anymore.

I step on the road checking both directions to cross, adjacent the construction blockade to my right, standing like a bishop next to the reliable rook, 12 moves into a high-stakes chess match. I cross and notice the engines of the cars on the street to my left, traveling in my direction. I think how they resemble the snarling of some animal in a movie before a big battle, but I can’t pinpoint the film.  

As I continue crossing to the other side, I see the seemingly occurring street parade, which has the energy of places that sold CD’s when the Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC still mattered. It feels like the traffic stretches hundreds of cars back, but in actuality it’s likely 30 at the most. I see it seems the automotive damn is being caused by a double-parked UPS truck delivering a package to a family living above a local diner. The delivery seems important.

That diner sucks, by the way. We used to go there in the past but stopped because the food always smelled a bit off. Even the ketchup, for example, was always odd – after I would smack the label to get it to come out, it would always fall onto my plate with a bizarre glaze and foamy texture – as if the original tomatoes had significant kidney damage. Also, the owner’s a creep who thinks smiling means showing as many teeth as you can, without moving your cheeks or eyes – looking like a disgruntled extra in a Nissan commercial.  

The traffic, and the individual cars are freed-up from their one-way path through a large intersection with three other lane-options, all of which allow for travel in opposite directions. I notice the empty space in the other three lanes as I cross the street, both appreciating the freedom from the congestion, but apprehensive about the potential accidents the additional space may host. I’ve driven on that road many times, and I never really contextualized that difference.

I soon arrive at my girlfriend’s apartment. I enter the door and see my dog, Layla, a 3-year old German Shepherd on the bed, with her torso and head scrunched up, like a dry sponge that was used twice, then left untouched for six weeks. Layla was typically excited when I, my girlfriend, or the other pup Jasmine, who I call everything from “Utah Jazz” to “Jazz-min Pollack,” who is currently with my close friend’s grandmother about twenty blocks east of our current spot, would come home. I walk up to the bed as she looks at me, appearing distraught and upset.

I sit on the bed with her. I bounce slightly and move the blanket from Layla’s neck area and pet her, expressing “I know, me too.” Layla remains still. She leans on my thigh, resting as an impromptu blanket of support, both from the energy of affection and cascade of fur she carries.

The sun begins to roll over for the night.

I put to rest the light next to the bed, looking at the photo of my girlfriend, the two dogs, and I, from one-year prior on a Sunday evening after we all had a large portion of steak, asparagus, and mashed potatoes we all cooked together. It seems like forever since my girlfriend’s been here. Every day I’ve been visualizing when she told me and Layla she’d be home soon.

But it’s just the two of us now.

Layla and I settle on the bed, under the comforters populated by dog fur and half-chewed bones, looking like they’ve been bitten by a hammerhead shark. I remain on my side, with my head atop the pillow, staring at the window, enmeshed with my reflection, but also the numerous buildings with sparse light fixtures on roofs in the distance.  

Layla stares up at me smiling, and I look down at her, acting like I have our situation figured out, while my brain wanders aimlessly, like a lost C-3PO on a distant planet.

On nights like this, I’m reminded of something my girlfriend told me; “Our bodies perform, minds create, and shadows tell the truth.”

So, for the time being, I hope the city keeps the lights on.