Same Difference

Hooray for crazy people on both coasts!

            Driving on the freeway, I stared blankly, serenely out of the window, watching the painted lines zoom past.  I wondered if they would look the same where I was going.  The sun was setting, casting a brilliant red-orange glow behind a mountainous silhouette in the distance.  Fields of grapes, corn, and weeds stretched to what might have been the very ends of the earth.  They gleamed a bright gold beneath the radiant sky, their lush emerald hues having been stolen by the summer sun.

            The car pulled off of the freeway and I found myself gazing down a city street.  The sidewalks on either side of the road were dotted with fascinating, sometimes frightening people.  A woman with more metal on and around her face than in the stockrooms at Lowes walked slowly past, seeming to challenge anyone and everyone.  Her hair, violent shades of violet and scarlet, matched to perfection the t-shirt she wore, bearing the legend ‘Particle of Pain’.  I hoped that this was a band. 

            A group of teenage boys with skateboards and cigarettes loitered on a street corner, talking and laughing stupidly.  They were quite sure that they were the height of cool.  I noticed that one, slightly younger than the rest, held his cigarette uncertainly and stood on the outermost edge of the group.  I smiled at him—I knew what it was to be alone in a crowd.  He nodded back, and there was deep understanding that took place that could never be put into words.  He let his cigarette fall to the ground.

            Several yards beyond them, a man sat beneath one of the trees which lined the street.  He looked as though, many showers ago, he may have been rather handsome.  Covered in years of filth and weighed down by shame, the only part of him that was clean were his clear, sad blue eyes.  I wondered about his life.  Did he have a family?  Was he always homeless?  I wondered what his dreams were.  Maybe when he was small, he wanted to be a pilot when he grew up, or a painter.  Maybe in high school he played tennis, or was good at photography.  I wondered what happened in his life to put him under a tree on a city street.  Perhaps he once was a successful businessman, and lost everything in a dramatic stock market crash, or had a spectacular bout with alcohol.  I watched those sad eyes and whispered through the glass, “things will get better.”

            I sincerely hoped they would.

            When at last we arrived at our destination—in this cast, the airport—we had to park several blocks away.  Stepping out into the cool dusk air, I listened as birds overhead chattered gaily about the day.  The air smelled faintly of flowers and diesel oil, having parked somewhere between a rose garden and gas station.

            I boarded the plane at about nine-o-clock that evening and, seven hours and twenty-nine hundred time zones later, I was looking in awe at the inside of Ronald Regan airport in Washington, D.C.  It was around noon when I arrived (though according to my California-acclimated body, it was about five in the morning) which meant that it was well over a gazillion degrees.  The sun was high in a clear, cloudless sky, haloing everything from cars to trees to particularly shiny buildings with a blinding light.

            It was rather surreal to ride along on such a complex web of a freeway, with its overpasses and underpasses and sidepasses, and look out of the window to see the Washington Monument, or the Jefferson Memorial.  To see such iconic buildings in person made me feel privileged, important.  Just driving by felt patriotic.       I noticed that there were no fields of any sort, anywhere.  It felt odd not to watch acres of agriculture soar by as we drove onward.

            As we neared the heart of the city, the sidewalks were not so much dotted as striped with people.  A tall woman with a suit, briefcase, and a taut, dark ponytail was waiting impatiently for the traffic light to change.  She appeared to have some kind of force field, because no one was standing within three feet of her (no small feat on so crowded a sidewalk) but everyone seemed to press in on her nonetheless, trying to absorb some of her poise, her coolness.

            A group of young businessmen with cell phones and Starbucks stood on a street corner, chatting importantly, probably about this stock market or that bond.  They held themselves in a way that they surely hoped would be intimidating and authoritative—I thought that they merely looked silly, with their chests thrust out and brows furrowed in condescending anxiety.  One, slightly less important-looking than the rest, seemed to be having trouble getting a word in edgewise and stood on the outermost periphery of the group.  He did not look up as I passed.

                A man, in the D.C. uniform of suit, tie, and briefcase, looking tired and harassed, paused for a moment in the shade beneath one of the trees which lined the street.  He looked as though, many law firms ago, he may have been rather handsome.  Covered in years of corporate slime and weighed down by disappointment in his life, the only part of him with any memory of a spark were his clear, sad blue eyes.  They looked vaguely familiar.  I wondered about his life.  Was this what he always wanted to be?  Did he have a family?  I wondered what his dreams used to be.  Maybe when he was small, he wanted to be a pastry chef when he grew up, or an interpreter for the German Embassy.  Maybe in high school he played chess, or was good at basketball.  I wondered what happened in his life to put him in a blistering suit on a city street.  Perhaps he once was a poverty-stricken man and had vowed never to go back, no matter what, or maybe he was trying to please his parents, who expected him to be a great lawyer someday.  I watched those sad eyes and whispered through the glass, “things will get better.”

            I sincerely hoped they would.

 

Author's Note

Rate, review, enjoy-- you've heard it all before, now do it.

Reviews

[Annalisa]

This was interesting. You do a wonderful job of allowing the reader to visualize what is going on but at the same time you don't get caught up on details and bore the reader. A very nice balancing act, I especially like the line "He looked as though, many showers ago, he may have been rather handsome. "

[Cassya77]

Wow you good at this 'real life' thing! i find your writing intriguing and engrossing, i really enjoyed it.