The Walk Home

I gently close my eyes as I once more step through the most plain, stereotypical windowless exit door you can dream of and out into the bright beaming light. Opening my eyes, I look up towards—but not quite directly at—the joyful sun dominating a cloudless sky. But alas, it’s that unworldly hour of the day that most of us would call middle of the night, journalists would report as early in the morning, and technically is already a double digit percentage of tomorrow. What I imagined to be the welcoming, natural sunshine is only the familiar, watered down peach luminescence of an array of sodium security lights.

I’m not even tired after working another lonely 12 hour shift bathed in dim, incandescent light. The warehouse is my homestead in many ways, mindlessly packing boxes for everybody else, faceless, named nobodies in essence to me. I let fade the tinny intercom voices of coworkers I’ve never met calling each other to random room numbers, sometimes hurriedly but mostly without passion. I forget the periodic heartbeat tones of the neighbouring machines, knowing they’ll be there tomorrow both to greet me and send me off again. The feeling of the dry, stale, and sterile air pouring out of the overhead ventilation fans disappears from my skin. My featureless uniform has ceased to have its hold on my existence. I let myself imagine those were the voices of happy festival goers, the chirping of cheerful birds, and the wash of a refreshing summer breeze fluttering over colourful but casual attire that would match only with the freedom of a pair of worn-in sandals.

I walk through the familiar streets towards my small one-room apartment, ignoring the dreary calm and abandonment of night and instead imagining the hustle that will replace it after dawn makes way for another hot summer day. Children pulling their parents to the next adventure, a hot dog stand ready for hungry passersby, and the relief offered by an ice cream truck displaying its many tempting treats.

My mind wanders to the same memory I recall every night on the walk home. Surrounded by friends, without a care in the world, feeling blades of grass along my arms and legs as I lean into that half-sitting, half-laying position that a hillside begs for. We’re listening to that perfect mix of safe, popular, gleeful music at just the right volume coming from a live cover band on a stage not far away. The festival in its prime afternoon time when families and easy going young adults share the greatness of the longest day of the year. Nothing in the past to ruminate on, nothing in the future to worry about. The memory in my mind and the sidewalk under my feet pull me along in concert.

Soon those nostalgic memories will taper off and end as the sun sets on that festival’s last day in my mind. The same feeling coming over me as you get in the cinema when the credits start to roll after a satisfying end to a movie you’ve been dying to see for months. I’ll finish the walk collecting myself in preparation to dive into the next day’s predictable night shift. Another 12 hours of… what do I do again? I don’t care, it passes the time and keeps me busy. It steals my time in the summer sun but I don’t seem to mind. When did I get that job? I don’t even remember the name of the company. Don’t remember interviewing for it, nor who it is who calls themselves my boss. Why am I even working there? I still have another couple of years to go in my program and then go on to achieve all of my professional career aspirations. This isn’t my life, working endless hours every night and sleeping through the wonder of these summer days… is it? Who have I become?

Suddenly I’m back on the line with box in hand, the warehouse’s sounds and smells and feelings hitting me like strangers rushing off of a packed subway. But the dull acceptance of this daily routine is shattered and I’m frozen with fear and confusion. Like an animal realizing it’s trapped in a cruelly undersized zoo enclosure, I’m scanning my surroundings for a way out. Now I’m pushing through that door again but it feels heavier, as if a mighty wind is on the other side pushing back.

The door submits after I’ve collecting the willpower to fight its resistance. I’m running along the familiar streets, not sure if I’m running away from something or towards it. My mind races as I look around at what has turned from familiar to unknown. I think about how every night before this I’ve enjoyed the serenity of casually strolling along and remembering those fond memories of that summer festival. And I’m there now. Actually there. Not just remembering. The feeling of the grass, the live music, the laughter of my friends. I’m there, but I’m paralyzed, not literally but frozen by a mixture of awe, confusion, and happiness. It feels not quite real but certainly much more so than the memories streaming by as I walk home. I enjoy the moment and feel myself getting drawn into what feels like an entirely new existence. My friend turns to me and says “don’t leave me now, okay?” and I nod, unable to muster any kind of meaningful reply. She holds my hand and squeezes it gently, repeating that same line followed by “stay with me, we’re going to get you home soon”. I *want* to stay with her. Why would I want to go home? She must be a friend of friend because I don’t really know who she is but I recognize her voice as if we’ve spent ages together. In an instant I can tell she has a pure kindness about her and her presence brings with it a sort of faithfulness and dedication to me that I can’t explain. This must be a dream, I’m not walking home, I’m in bed at home having finished the walk without even realizing it. No, I’m at work, I must have gone into one of those dazed spells like an automaton, no more a person than the beeping machines nearby. The feel of her soft hand touching mine has transformed into the soft but gritty feel of the cardboard box in my hand, the familiarity of her replaced by the anonymity of the box’s recipient. Soon the monotony of my shift comes to another uneventful end and I’m through that plain grey door and back on that same walk home accompanied by my memories. But this is different still, it feels as if yesterday was an hour ago, and the last 12 hours of work just mere minutes. The memories of the warehouse, that dreamlike recall of the festival, and the previous night’s walk all clashing at once fresh in my mind.

I’m walking my usual route home with its landmarks and features passing by with the predictability of a favourite TV show episode watched countless times. But I’m overcome with the sensation of wandering through a hidden town in a foreign country. I know each and every detail but I somehow also know that I shouldn’t. And there’s an odd presence from every direction, like an itch begging to be scratched, or a treasure waiting to be discovered.

Wait. Who is that? In the million times I must have made the peaceful solitary trek home I have never seen a single soul sharing the sidewalk. And yet ahead of me there she is, pony tail swinging, wearing her own uniform from what must be an equally forgettable job, striding along with confident purpose but at a thoughtful pace. She’s smiling at me. I can see she’s speaking gently to me and I can hear her clearly even though there’s no way I should be able to at this distance. The streetlights broadcast directed light straight down from above and yet it’s like there’s an aura around her from an unseen light source behind. Is she an angel? A spirit? A hallucination? She knows my name. She’s telling me to come to her. No, to come back to her. And not just to her, she’s telling me to come back to “us”. We’re walking towards each other but with each step the distance between us doesn’t seem to close. It’s the girl from my dream, the pony tail so undeniably familiar, and that caring presence. I can feel her holding my hand as she speaks, a warm and soft touch followed by a light squeeze. My heart is racing, I’m eager to go to her and yet I feel I’m already right beside her. And the flowers? Where did they come from? Surely I would remember if the planters along this stretch of the road displayed such beautiful arrangements. And the darkness of the sky seems to gradually make way for dawn even though I’m sure it’s too early for it. This must be a dream and yet everything else around us feels as lucid and sober as it always has.

I’m no longer walking… I’m floating on my back. No, I’m lying down. But I don’t feel the hard pavement underneath. I’m in my bed, but not my house. Wait. This isn’t my room, and it’s not my bed. The darkness of the night broken by regular cones of street lamps makes way for tempered daylight accented by a dim incandescent ambience. She’s still there, she’s still holding my hand, she’s still telling me to come back to her… to them. There they are. My mom and dad, a couple of my friends, and her. “Thank goodness” I hear from a familiar voice. That colourful outfit and sandals of my memories lay neatly on a chair in the corner. I’m not in the warehouse and yet the chirping of the machines, the sterile air, and the intercom voices are more vivid than ever.

***

I spent the night sleeping more soundly than ever, knowing I had served my last shift at the warehouse, the nighttime walks home were no more, and the summer days were not just old memories of the past but new ones waiting to be forged. I can’t remember what it was they told me that happened during the festival that landed me in that hospital bed, or how long I had been unconscious. I was too focused on the angelic nurse with the ponytail as she attended to her duties before departing at a purposeful pace. But I’ll never forget stepping through the door the next day not into the trickery of those dreamed sodium lamps but instead the pure and true glow of the invigorating sun, my life reclaimed and the prime of summer awaiting.