I must have been 13 years old that Fathers Day. Dad’s restaurant of choice was Denny’s. The conversation was pleasurable and when the food came my hunger began to slowly subside with each forkful of whatever it was I was eating that morning, I don’t remember. I do remember, however, that something was suddenly very wrong.
It’s the first day of the year and I’m coming home from my girl’s place. I’m on a city bus; she’s already at work, but I can still smell the tropical aroma of her hair because I used her shampoo. It combines with the aqua reef scent of my Old Spice deodorant and my cologne, a contrast to the odors of smoke, cocktails, and unconsumed, soggy, buffet food from the bars.
The ride is slow going, yet appeasing to my aching head and grumbling stomach. The bus driver is meticulous with his stops, arriving at each at exactly the moment the folded schedule in my hands says he should. We continue along as my eyes battle the afternoon sun without the help of my sunglasses, which are resting unassumingly in my car’s cup holder back home. I glance back at the route map in my hands and realize that the bus will not be dropping me nearly as close to home as expected. I figure on a two to three mile walk if I get off at Logan Street, but today I don’t mind. As the bus approaches Logan, I pull the yellow “stop requested” cord, which has been slackened by the myriad of tugs over the years. I bid the bus driver a happy New Year and thank him for the ride and exit.
I walk south on Logan, with my hands in my jacket pockets, zipping the front all the way to my chin, impeding the tenaciousness of the afternoon chill. The strap of my red duffel bag is slung across my chest and I hear lose change falling from the pockets of my dirty jeans, jingling around with the other lose items. As I get a few blocks down, I am immediately aware of the calm and quiet of the street and the houses: no barking dogs, no cars on the street, nobody around. I am alone, walking. The contents in my duffel bag make noise, but they soon adapt a rhythm of their own as I settle into a steady pace. I suspect that the neighborhood is also recovering from last night, hibernating, but not for long.
A few houses down I see a woman on the porch of her home shaking out a rug. The puffs of dust catch the breeze and whirl outward. A beer can, perched on the worn, wooden, railing, falls victim to the wake of the flapping rug and ends up in a shrub, spilling its last tasteless mouthful down the stems. I can smell her perfume even from the sidewalk. A block further down I pass a house with a brown Poodle chained in the front yard. He gives me an inquisitive yelp and moves toward me before the chain becomes taut. There is life in this neighborhood after all, just now beginning to stir. It’s three in the afternoon.
Three more blocks on Logan I see the wide expanse of Highbury Park open up on my left. I stop a minute, and then decide to cut through the park to shave some time off my trek. I inadvertently begin to follow a man on a motorized cart; he is wearing an Oakland Raiders jacket. I think to myself: A following this far east? Worst team in the league this season. That’s dedication. We keep a steady pace, him about thirty yards ahead of me, still close enough to hear the wheezing of the motor. I make up some ground as he reaches the slight inclines along the path, but never long enough to pass him. The path curves around a pond where Canadian geese float lazily on the calm surface and occasionally dip their heads under water. The sun, now just above the naked treetops, slants its final rays of the day off the pond in a blinding glare into my eyes. From my car my sunglasses say, I told you so. I continue along with head down, but eyes level until I make it beyond the pond, free from the sun’s beaming fury. The air smells like spring and the grass remains mostly green. Today would even qualify as a spring day if not for the breeze that manipulates the temperature. Even some of the leaves from April still cling tight to the branches of their deciduous proprietors. Some people in the park are walking their dogs. One lady lags confidently behind her Boxer, who crosses only yards in front of me without so much as a sniff of acknowledgement or a change in direction.
When I reach Superior Avenue at the other end of Highbury Park, I see the man on the cart again, well ahead of me now, surprised that his winding, cement path beats out my direct route through the green. Countless times I have driven on Superior and not once have I noticed the care that these homeowners put into their investments. The front lawns, not yet succumbing to the dull brown left by layers of frost and snow, are perfectly edged, as if they were placed into a mold. The shrubs are pruned to perfection, their edges pronounced and defined. One bush in particular is in the shape of the receiver of a touch-tone phone resting right side up, and it reminds me of the telephone shrub in front of my boyhood home. Further along, a small bodega sits between a funeral home and a house converted into a State Farm agency. Depending on which order you choose, you can remove your wife as a beneficiary, celebrate with a sixer and a pack of smokes, and go next door to plan your death, all within 30ft.
After I cross over a bridge, noticing for the first time that there are train tracks running underneath and not water, I come upon Gold Rush Chicken. The greasy smell piping out permits my nauseated stomach to digest food again. I’m so damn hungry now, I briefly consider calling my friend Anderson from my building to come get me, but then I quickly decide against it. I want nothing more now than to finish this walk. I realize I have been alone with my thoughts for the better part of an hour, not wanting now to disrupt the flow. I suddenly feel like a pitcher who is on the cusp of throwing a no hitter, the zone where sudden changes and interferences are not allowed, or even thought of. I want this walk, this experience, to be entirely mine and not refashion my mode of transport to anything other than simplicity. I’m wondering why I even thought of asking for a lift, hoping that I have not jinxed myself.
No comments:
Post a Comment