Dofo

Matin Dofolo sat at his usual table on the open patio of the Cafe Caliphate. His favorite after school treat, a splendidly creamy strawberry milkshake, awaited his attention. He took a moment to appreciate the warming late afternoon March sun. The air was freshly cleansed by a recent rain shower. He wore his favorite shirt. He was content. For a moment.

A striking woman of indeterminate age approached his table. Older, he thought, then corrected himself. Mature is more appropriate. Slender and diminutive, her silky black hair cascaded wildly over her shoulders. She carried herself powerfully, with elegance. Her eyes fixed on him in a most disconcerting manner.

 He felt awkward around people in general and females in specific, so he pretended to be interested in the starlings that picked from a sidewalk trash bin. He hoped fervently that she walked past.

“You may call me Papa, yes?” she said. She sat without invitation at his table.

“Papa?” Secretly he was pleased she sat at his table and that surprised him.

“Khina Mercia Papadopoulos…you see?” she said. “My friends call me Papa, yes?”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “My name is Matin Dofolo.” Be polite, thought Matin Dofolo. He should be annoyed at the intrusion, but…

“You are Dofo,” said Papa. She said it precisely, her eyes fixed kindly on his.

“The other kids call me Dofo to be hurtful,” said Dofo. How did she know his nickname? It was different when she said it. He felt…identity. Connected. Like he owned it and it was good. Her eyes penetrated. He was exposed, as if she knew who he was inside. He was intrigued in a freaked out sort of way.

He spooned his thick strawberry milkshake, savored the silky taste. She thoughtfully stirred honey into a mug of steeping tea.

“Dofo,” said Papa. “Do you believe I am being hurtful?”

“Uh,” said Dofo. He should run away, he knew. The conversation was not comfortable. He was sure it was about to get worse. A thought came to him. “Did I see you at the school track earlier today? Talking to—”

“Coach Bauman,” said Papa. “I watched you earlier and asked him about you.” She spoke gently. “He did not know your name.”

“Hm,” said Dofo. “Not surprised.” He looked at Papa, puzzled. “Why were you watching me?”

“You…stood out,” said Papa. “What exactly was it that you were doing?”

“I was running,” said Dofo. “Uh…practicing the mile run. Track and field team. You know, four laps—”

“Yes. No. Whatever you were doing it was not running.”

Dofo thought back. He was sure he had been running.

“Uh…well, yea. It’s a race, you see?” said Dofo. “Four times around—”

“—the track, yes, I get that thank you,” said Papa. “Four times around whatever, you were not running. I mean, arms and legs and head all flapping in different directions. It was…disconcerting.”

“Okay,” said Dofo, slowly. The conversation was definitely out of control. “Who are you, exactly?”

“What do your coaches tell you about running? Do they teach you? Critique you? Help you improve?” said Papa.

“No. I don’t exist for them. I’m invisible to them, just like I’m invisible to everyone.” Brutal reality, thought Dofo. Why would he tell her this?

“This is how you become visible?”

“What’s wrong with running?”

“I’m not talking about style or method or technique, though my goodness, you lack all of this, I think,” said Papa. “I’m talking about your energy, your sense of being while you are attempting this thing.” She reached out and laid a hand softly on his forearm. “It truly sucks, you know? So why do you do it?”

Dofo did not like to be touched by people. He stared at her hand. It was comforting, not disturbing. He did not have the urge to recoil. He was okay with it. Who was this person?

“I want to belong,” he said. He had never said the words aloud before this. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“How will this help you belong?”

“The school guidance counselor says I don’t blend well with other students,” said Dofo. He felt defensive. “She suggested I join a sports team. I don’t like people touching…uh, contact sports. Track and field seems like a good fit for me.” Telling Papa this, it didn’t sound any more right now than it did when he signed up.

“When you are alone, with yourself, you are content. Your mind is quiet. When you are alone in this crowd you are lonely. Your mind is unsettled.” Papa’s eyes narrowed. “So, there is some friction here, yes?”

“Hm,” said Dofo.

“You are committed to becoming visible? And this running, this is how you will accomplish not disappearing?”

“I just want to belong somewhere.” Dofo was at loose ends, frustrated and annoyed. He wasn’t even half done with his milkshake. The situation was out of control.

 “Don’t let others convince you that you do not belong. Where you belong is your business…” said Papa. “But, you seem intent on this. If you wish to become visible, you will need to approach it differently, yes? I will help you.”

It was a statement, not a question. Anxiety grew in Dofo’s chest. This sounded like commitment, not the kind he could just talk about, but the kind he had to follow through on. He might be required to succeed. How visible did he really want to be?

“Why would you help me?”

“I know of not belonging,” said Papa. “I can help.”

“So…can you help me meet girls?”

Papa raised an eyebrow, looked at him critically, shook her head slightly.

“Not wearing that shirt, no one can.” 

***

To Dofo’s dismay, Papa appeared at the school track the next day. Dofo felt the laughing eyes of other students as she approached him.

“Okay,” she said. “So run.”

“Hm,” said Dofo. “Sorry?”

“You want to run. So run now.”

“Where?”

“Around the track?” Papa’s eyebrows raised, like he should know this answer.

“All the way?”

“Is it too far?”

“No…”

“So run. Now.”

He ran around the track. When he returned to Papa, he was out of breath.

“You run like you do not believe. You run with doubt, like you are looking for an excuse to fail.” Papa shook her head. “You can fail in easier ways, without being out of breath.” Her voice shifted to business. “Raise your head. Keep your back straight. Let your weight roll off the balls of your feet. Feel it here,” Papa motioned toward Dofo’s abdomen. “Again.”

Dofo tried three more times.

“Enough for today,” she said. She grasped Dofo by his shoulders. “You are about to make great progress.”

Dofo bent to tie his shoe. When he looked up, she was gone, as if she had never been there.

The next day Papa decided they would avoid the crowded track. Instead, she selected a wide meadow just up Hills Hollow Road north of town.

“Run,” said Papa.

Dofo ran around the perimeter of the meadow. After a couple laps he knew the ground well enough to keep his head up, his back straight, without tripping. He felt the earth through the balls of his feet. He felt lighter. He started to enjoy himself.

“I’m not asking you to do anything special. All I’m asking is that you breathe deep, and run as if you mean it,” said Papa, as Dofo finished his final lap, panting and sweating, legs shaking.

“I feel pretty good,” said Dofo. He huffed and puffed the words, hands on knees, catching his breath. “Except my lungs are about to burst.”

“Each step, your feet should touch the ground with confidence and courage. Each footfall is deliberate and different.”

“Uh…well, right now I might need to pass out,” said Dofo.

“You live in that direction.” Papa pointed over the treetops. 

Dofo looked in that direction. When he turned back she was gone. He walked, annoyed at having to hike home. Through the woods, no less.

His path took him by Caleb Tomey’s house, decrepit and overgrown by vegetation. Dofo imagined it was a cozy home in better times. Barely intact, it featured boarded windows and a lopsided front door. The weathered gray structure looked ready to collapse if subjected to a slight breeze, or an errant sneeze.

“Who’s there?” said a voice. A bent, bewhiskered old man slipped out of the broken front door, clothed warmly in clean jeans and a jacket. 

Dofo knew Caleb Tomey. He won medals for heroism in Vietnam. He came home from overseas and was forgotten. Nam was unpopular on the home front.

“Hello Mr. Tomey,” said Dofo. “It’s Matin Dofolo.” Dofo was surprised he was still alive. He liked Caleb.

“Matin Dofolo?” said Caleb. “Come in…”

“Thank you,” said Dofo. “You remember me?”

“You live a couple miles up the hollow.”

It could not be considered a living room, that would be too formal for the barren echoing space Dofo stepped into. It was empty of furnishings except for a folding chair and a slight table. Caleb found another folding chair—for company he said with a laugh—dusted it off and the two sat talking for a long time.

“In Vietnam your friend was wounded. You carried him out of the jungle,” said Dofo. “He would have died.”

“Yes,” said Caleb.

“They were shooting at you?”

“Oh yes,” said Caleb.

“Where did you find the courage?”

“We don’t leave friends behind,” said Caleb. “It’s that simple.”

When it came time for him to go home, Dofo said: “May I visit again?”

“Please,” said Caleb.

For a week the practice routine continued. He ran around the meadow while Papa watched. Papa and Dofo talked about how various parts of his life connected, or didn’t connect. He looked forward to those conversations. They were challenging and intriguing and Papa was wonderful to be with.

“We will practice in rhythm with your life,” said Papa.

One day Dofo said: “Our first track meet is next week. Tomorrow we have a run-off to determine who competes for the team. I want to try.”

“If you wish,” said Papa.

It did not turn out well for Dofo. First, he had to remind Coach Bauman who he was. Then, to his chagrin the number of those who hoped to qualify for the mile run was huge. Dofo got lost in the pack, buffeted back and forth, cut off and otherwise disrespected. He finished last.

He visited Caleb nearly every day now. The house was broken, but Caleb Tomey was structured and orderly. His life was clean, well scrubbed and built on routine. He pumped water from a well. A fire pit provided for cooking. An old gas generator supplied power, when needed.

“Purpose is everything,” said Caleb. “You cannot truly live without a strong purpose.”

“Why do you live out here like this?” said Dofo.

“Land. Home,” said Caleb. “This is where the angels find me.”

“Angels?”

“My friends, who did not come home with me,” said Caleb.

“Is that your purpose?”

“My purpose is to be in love with life,” said Caleb. “I’ve seen so much of it lost, you see? To possess life is something special.”

“I don’t want to go my entire life without attempting one great thing,” said Dofo.

“What is a great thing? People achieve great things every day but never know it. A kind word, a tolerant heart. These are great things,” said Caleb.

“I don’t fit in with my classmates,” said Dofo. “I’m different.”

“Different?” said Caleb. “That is a great achievement.”

***

One afternoon after running in the meadow Dofo stood with Papa at the edge of the woods, in the shade.

“I want to win a race,” said Dofo.

“You are much stronger,” said Papa.

“There’s a meet coming up next week. If I qualify, I can run.”

“You are ready,” said Papa.

When he told Caleb the old man was reserved, but Dofo felt he was also secretly pleased.

“If that’s what you want,” said Caleb. He gazed back out at the tree line. They were quiet together for a while. The breeze was cold, dark patches of clouds raced overhead.

“Weather driving through,” said Caleb. “Cold tonight. Winds.”

“Aren’t you afraid your…house…will fall down?” said Dofo.

“No room for fear anymore,” said Caleb. “All feared out.” He laughed. “Listen. Think about where you are and what’s going on around you. Situational awareness, you know. Be kind, but you got a job to do. That’s all.”

At the next run-off Dofo was prepared. He knew how to position himself. He paced himself and watched the other runners carefully. He ran strong. In the end, he placed third. He qualified for the mile run at the next track meet.

That was quite a surprise for Coach Bauman and his staff, as they didn’t remember Dofo being on the team. But the coach checked his clipboard, an assistant produced a document, and it was confirmed.

Coach shrugged his shoulders. “You can run.”

Dofo was ecstatic. He had never qualified for anything before. Now, people knew who he was. His name was on the roster. He stared at it for a long time.

The next afternoon he told Papa: “I have a week. I’m going to train day and night, rain or snow,” said Dofo.

“Why the hell would you do that?” said Papa.

“I just thought more practice—” said Dofo.

“No,” said Papa.

They sat together for a very long time. The meadow was soft and tranquil. Butterflies and birds and gentle rustling creatures bustled all about them. Finally, Dofo had something to say.

“I’m not like the others,” he said. “I am not naturally gifted. It does not come easily to me. But now I feel the ground beneath my feet. My breathing is more wholesome. I see the world differently.”

“This is courage in your life.”

“Courage is different than I thought it was,” said Dofo.

“Indeed,” said Papa.

His practice routine did not change. Dofo trained in the open meadow with Papa. Afterwards he hiked through the hills toward his home, always stopping by Caleb’s place for a chat and a good think, staring into the forest.

As the race neared, Dofo’s anxiety grew. Doubt seeped in. The day before the big race Papa cut practice short, to save his energy.

“There is a big test in front of you,” said Papa. “But it may not be the test you expect.”

Dofo was used to Papa’s cryptic comments. Today he was too involved in his own angst to pay much mind to this one. He headed toward home, intending to stop for a chat and, he hoped, a more uplifting pep talk from Caleb. Big test, he thought. Don’t I know it.

Caleb was unconscious in the front yard, a formless sack on the ground. Dofo froze in shocked disbelief. He moved hesitantly toward the crumpled figure. He crouched, bent forward awkwardly to see Caleb’s face, which was partially turned away from him. Dofo held his breath, listened and watched for any sign of life. He tentatively held his fingers on Caleb’s neck, where he imagined a vein or artery should be. What would a pulse feel like? His own heart pounded wildly.

He felt—or imagined—a slight thump, sporadic and weak. Now that he was watching, Dofo could see Caleb’s chest rise and fall in small breaths. Dofo sat back on his heels. He mind raced. What was the correct thing to do?

He did not own a phone—unlike all of his classmates. They got me on that one, he thought ruefully. Caleb sure as hell didn’t have a phone. The closest house was his own, still at least two miles uphill. No one at home this time of day, he knew. No landlines, not anymore. Down the hill, back toward town, it was three or four miles to the nearest anything.

He started to run toward town. He stopped. Stared at his fallen friend. He made his decision. Caleb was light as a feather. Dofo held him carefully, protected him as much as he could. He ran. It took a while to figure out how to carry the unconscious Caleb without harming him further. But he did. He ran.

He carried Caleb through clearings and thickets, across streams and over broken fences. He ran when he could, stumbled when he couldn’t. He never stopped moving. Caleb’s life was in his hands.

He ran right into the center of town, passed the high school on his left and The Cafe Caliphate on his right. He continued straight, directly through the front doors of the urgent care center.

It was getting dark now, a long day for Dofo. He waited in deepening shadow and watched Caleb, tucked tightly beneath smoothed sheets, alarmingly still. Nurses checked vital signs. But no change. He kept watch into the lean, cold hours of the early dawn.

Papa woke him.

“Don’t you have a race to run today?”

“Ran a race yesterday,” said Dofo. He nodded toward Caleb. “He’s my friend. We don’t leave friends behind.”

They sat together without talking. Having Papa with him calmed Dofo.

“Everyone is talking about you,” said a nurse.

“That was a great thing you did,” said another nurse.

They both shook Dofo’s hand.

 Caleb opened one eye, then the other. He grumbled and mumbled.

“Hey,” said Caleb. “I see you.”