This is the Best Part

I walked up the stairs to the platform. Dull gray and sleepy oranges appeared over the trees and squat buildings. Perched on that island of rock, wood, and iron rails, I watched the city-sad twilight horizon drift east. I could hear the commuter train barreling in from the south, escaping from dusk-swallowed skyscraper lights.

It did not slow down and some on the platform were startled when a whistle blew in suggestion. I turned my back and tried to hide from the approaching gust of dirt and cigarette butts. There was a gathering of momentum, a crescendo, and then it was gone. I arrived earlier than I thought. My watch was wrong.

I looked south again searching for a light floating over the tracks in the distance and I waited.


I was in a hurry. My bike had been stolen the week before so I had to walk to the train. It was a Sunday and I knew I couldn't waste time waiting for a bus that might not feel like coming. I did stop on the corner and look west just for a moment. There was another man standing at the bus stop but he was resigned to waiting. He leaned against the brick wall of the liquor store and closed his eyes when I looked at him. He took a deep breath and I think he was about to smile. I walked by without another glance and headed south.

The trees were getting greener on Leland street. There were baby carriages and fathers, and kids on bicycles with training wheels. There was a freshly opened scar on the pavement in the middle of the street with warning cones surrounding it. A cat was sleeping on a front step as I passed. It rolled its eyes at me and scoffed. I picked up my pace. A dog and his man were walking toward me. The dog was dragging the man, intent on moving forward. I winked at the dog. The dog's man, bleary-eyed and smoking a cigarette, mistook this gesture of solidarity the wrong way and dropped his eyes. I looked at my watch and cursed petty bike thieves.

At the next corner I had to pause at an orange, blinking hand. I could see the raised train platform blocks away, laughing in its rust. I looked up the cross street and then down hoping for a window to make my move. When I looked to my left again a woman in a wide brimmed summer hat distracted me and I stared. She was reading a book, sitting on the bench outside of the coffee shop. There was a white ribbon around the trough of her hat with a blue flower held in place. She took a sip of her coffee and caught me looking at her over the top of her book. I looked away, avoiding the awkward moment in time to see the orange hand turn to a happy walking man.

I surged forward and forgot about the blue flower in her hat. On the next corner was a Catholic church with its doors swung open. I spied inside as I surged by and saw a handful of people sitting in pews. There was a priest in a white and purple costume with his arms raised over his congregation. I didn't hear what he said but I heard the organ say goodbye. I thought it was a train whistle, leaned ahead, and put my shoulder into the distance between the church and the platform.

My watch gave me mere seconds. I tried a jog for a few steps then returned to a walk; I trotted for a couple of sidewalk squares and then thought better. the entrance to the platform, though I could see people on it ahead and above me, was half way down the street it ran parallel to. I took the right turn at speed, jumping around a startled squirrel, and fixed my eyes on the stairway at street level. As I approached, I noticed a couple sitting on the bottom steps close together. The man had his arm around the woman. They were looking at their feet but were smiling. As I came up to them I heard the man say, "this is the best part."

Cowered and In Charge - A Meditation on New Year's Eve Dogsitting

The dog is driving me crazy now. I don’t know exactly what I should do. If I stand up it stands up and snarls. Its eyes. Ice and blue. Dull, though. I sit, and then it sits and plays. All I have to do is sit. But for how long?

A while later now. I haven’t tried to stand up. I am comfortable enough sitting here. There is a game on. A very patriotic scene. The Air Force academy is facing off against the University of California. I think it is in a southwestern state. So it is sunny and warm. Everyone is smiling. The service academy boosters and alum lend it a Fourth-of-July-parade type feel. There are American flags everywhere. Aviator sunglasses, too. And then there are the Californians. We all wear our costumes, I guess.

It’s all very American. I am an American.

Fumble!

Crowd goes wild with a red, white and blue frenzy.

But the dog. Shhh. I think it is finally a sleep. I think I might try and stand up-- Oh no. It groaned. Was that just a sleeping groan? Here I go!

It’s back up! It’s prowling. There is a singer on now pleading as loud as he can, “Relief!” I nod in agreement.

My Old Friend Robert Kills My Great Aunt Pearl

I wake to a gunshot.

I lay my head back onto my pillow, roll over with a handful of blanket and hide my back from the sun framed window—close my eyes.

It is that hazy time in the morning when it is hard to tell if dreams persist.

I am rolling down my back stairs. Instead of crashing to the ground, I am standing upright, looking back up into a brightly lit entrance. It is dark where I am on the landing. My great aunt Pearl’s silhouette is standing above me in the doorway. Like a demon angel. She starts to float down the stairs towards me. I clench my fists. They feel small and raw. My heart tries to jump out of my mouth. Then, quickening gelatin.

I wake to another gunshot.

I rub my eyes, crust crumbling in my fingers. My great aunt Pearl’s floating silhouette is still suspended before me—slowly melting away. The silhouette becomes a shadow. Then it is gone, and so is the memory.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth is the only reminder of fear.

I fall back down onto my pillow, sighing. I am glad it is morning and I did not wake in the middle of the night.

Another gunshot.

I roll over and close my eyes again, sure that the morning light will shelter me from more great-aunt-Pearls. The blanket is on the ground now, so I pull a wrinkled corner of sheet up around my head.

I am running. Slowly. But I am winning the race. I can see the finish line but no one is there cheering. My feet look like clown feet when I glance down. I look up. I am crouching at a starting block. I do not remember running a moment before. I have on a cheap green t-shirt that says Essex Grade School in black, block lettering. I look to my left. My friend Robert smiles back—his face is familiar but hazy. His teeth are very white. The starter raises his pistol.

I wake to another gunshot.

I moan and throw the sheet onto the ground. I sit on the side of my bed and look at my bedside alarm clock. It is nine twenty-three. The park across the street from my apartment was covered in snow when I moved in. I had had no idea that underneath was a public high school track.

I walk though my bedroom with heavy feet, then my living room scratching, and yawn into my kitchen. I stare out my window as another gunshot rings out. And I watch two skinny kids break away from the others. They are wearing the same jersey. It is not green and the kids are in high school. Still, I smile. I remember Robert.

And forget about my great aunt Pearl.