An Incident

Winter is dying. Its crisp, icy blue is being replaced by warm tones of orange and pink in the sky. There are even some green leaves on the streets, crushed by careless pedestrians. These are the first leaves, the ones too weak to hold on to the naked branches. But the later ones will be stronger and swish and sway in an inevitable spring breeze—it won’t be much longer now. The weather has also warmed up. There are couples strolling about, hand in hand, nothing but a light sweater covering bare shoulders.

I’m the only one wearing a suit at this time. The other bank clerks live on the opposite side of town. The realization hurries me along and I regret not bringing a change of clothes like some of the clerks do. The smell of that room is plastered on to me. With each breath I inhale a mixture of ink and dust. It’s a horrid smell. When I get home, I shall have to wash this suit, air a new one out to press, find a tie that goes with it, and wipe off my shoes because the dust sticks onto shoes as well. I walk faster and continue making my list when I nearly collide with another body in a suit.

It’s Mr. Williams, a senior clerk. His suit is unbuttoned and he’s removed his mandatory tie. I wager he’s also slackened his belt because his stomach forms an awkward pouch that I’ve never seen at work. He has his arms wrapped around the waist of some beautiful woman (I refuse to look at her face to find out any more than that). They are headed in the direction of the theater.

Mr. Williams and I have never talked outside of work but now he offers me a stiff nod. There is a certain hostility in meeting one’s kind in the streets.

        Mr. Grey.

        Mr. Williams.

        Nice weather for a stroll.

        Yes, it is.

        Good evening then.

And with that he is gone. Mr. Williams has a wife and that was not her. But it is getting dreadful thinking of work when I’ve just left it. I hate Mr. Williams and his woman for intruding upon the few hours I get for myself before I must wake up and return to being caged within that stone building. I stare harder at the sky in the horizon, willing it to change to an impossible color. A glistening emerald will do, or scarlet. But it remains that orangey pink color and in a few days more it will be the lively rose of spring.

There are certain noises that will stop one in their tracks when walking. If not stop, they will at least slow one down. These noises can be obvious like the blare of a horn or a loud crash. Or subtle, like the soft trickling of a ravine or the shrill of a certain bird. The sound of children laughing halts my steps. I sometimes forget there is a park here at all, so unfrequented it is by anyone. But tonight some neighborhood children have claimed it for their own, the same boys that I have seen run past me in the streets.

There is something quite jarring, intriguing perhaps, about people being in places you never associate them with. Although it is nothing notable for children to play in parks, it is notable that these children are playing in this park. I don’t know what draws them here at this hour. There are enough mosquitoes buzzing about (another sign of the upcoming spring) to drive one mad. Oblivious to the world, the children chase after one another under the dim yellow light from the nearby lamp posts. Yet it does not feel so eerie, as it is so likely to at night, here. Their laughter gives the place life.

They will not begrudge me sitting on this bench here, I am too far to interrupt their game. I wonder why I’ve never thought to sit here before. How lovely it is to breathe in these trees! Trees to a bank clerk is water to a starving man. A hint of greenery is all he thinks about, all he yearns for when isolated for hours in—but I did say I would not think of work. It has always been my belief that nature, unfiltered nature, can cure a man of anything. I wonder if my dusty body can be purified by the night air.

And then I see her. An old woman hunched over on a bench identical to mine, some paces to my left. She’s dressed in all black and on the ground between her feet a wooden cane is planted. Her entire being seems as if it is supported on that third leg. She blends in so well, as much a part of the landscape as the maples and the oaks.

As if reading my mind, she says,

What a lovely night!

Her voice is the tinkling of bells, not the scruffy note I expected. I only nod because I am so very tired. I no longer wish to hear the laughter of these children. With each peal I am aware of an aching pain in my legs. I am not young like them and my legs hurt from sitting all day.

The woman talks incessantly of her grandson, who is one of frolickers. He goes to the very school I attended as a youth. I wonder if he will be a bank clerk as well. The image of the school as a machine churning out an endless stream of dusty, aching bank clerks flits across my eyes. It is too ridiculous—I burst out laughing. The old woman assumes I am laughing at something she said and joins in. We sit and laugh and laugh, our laughter merging with that of the children.

In time she calls him to come to her. Her grandson is a short, bobbing blue cap in a swarm of baseball caps. He turns and sprints toward us, not relinquishing any of the energy he built up while playing. He is too radiant. He will not be a bank clerk. She gets up in turn and chuckles. There’s a tinge of condescension in her look, but she’s earned it after living on this planet for so long.

        Good luck, dear.

They’re off. The other children have finished playing and are moving on. They shake hands, knock each other on the head, wave and disperse. Not one of them cry or clutch at another. They’ve agreed to meet once more at the same time tomorrow. So certain are they in tomorrow.

It’s time I move on too.