Westwood and Fifth

No one knows who the young man who sits on the corner of Westwood and Fifth is. But for one person, they will inevitably change the way they see the world.

There was once a boy. And this boy had something special.

I never knew his name. My friends and I called him Jim because he looked like a blonde Jimmy Page. Only our Jim didn't go out on stage and perform incredible guitar solos or wear tattered leather. Our Jim was quiet and barely even there. He was like a single spark in the midst of flames.

He would sit on the corner of Westwood and Fifth, looking up at the sky or down either road, but never across. During winter he'd wear a disgustingly orange suede jacket. Anyone else would've looked like a pumpkin. But Jim looked effortless. Simple, undisturbed, and withdrawn.

The only people he would ever talk to would be the ones asking for a smoke. I can't remember one time he was ever caught empty. On one particularly bad day I went outside and saw Jim blowing puffs of smoke into the air. I sat down and watched each one disappear into the street lights. I like to imagine that he stayed out there until I was ready to go back home. A silent and understanding company.

My friends and I made up crazy stories about Jim. We imagined him as a detective, constantly on a stakeout. Or as a hustler always on the job. I was partial to the idea that he was a rock star living a secret double life in New York City. But in the end we never really believed the stories we told ourselves. It was just our way of trying to understand him.

My favorite memory of Jim however, happened on the Fourth of July. The whole neighborhood was outside, kids ran up and down the streets waving sparklers, families passed around food from the grill, friends laughed and smiled as they told jokes to one another. It was all well and good, and then the fireworks started to go off. The sky was illuminated with a rainbow of colors and all you could hear were the "oohs" and "ahs" of onlookers. But as everyone looked to the sky, I looked at Jim. I don't think I'd ever seen him smile until then, at least nothing that could compare to what I saw that night in July. It was as if the cool and detached persona he wore everyday had somehow disappeared. The cigarette he was holding fell to the ground in a moment of negligence and all that was left was childlike wonder. The last time I saw Jim was a few weeks after that.

I was at a grocery store, grabbing a few snacks for my friends and I, when I saw Jim walk in. And he seemed...lively. Different from what I would usually see on the corner of Westwood and Fifth. He went from aisle to aisle picking at foods almost at random. But he did it in a way that gave all his actions purpose. I was in the soda section when he stopped next to me, he grabbed a few drinks then turned in my direction.

I'd never seen him like that before, never face to face. His crystal clear blue eyes looked directly into mine and I didn't know what to do.

"I'll see you around" he said, and just like that he was gone.

It's rare, when someone could simply look at you and suddenly you feel like the most important person in the world. That's what Jim did. Wherever he would go, I had no doubt in my mind that everyone felt like I did when he looked at me. That's what was so special about Jim, he made people feel like they mattered.

The next day I didn't see Jim. Or the day after that, or any of the following days. He was found dead outside a bar the night after he talked to me. The neighborhood was buzzing with rumours. People called him a drunk, a criminal, someone going nowhere in life. He became a cautionary tale as to what not to become.

Newspapers officially announcing his death also spread. They included his real name, but I refused to read it. To me he would always be the guy who looked like a blonde Jimmy Page, who would never look across the street but up to the sky, who always had a spare smoke to share, who stayed outside with me when all I wanted to do was disappear, the guy who would look up at the Fourth of July sky like it was the eighth wonder of the world.