Urban refrain
Justin Lo
This is a city with twenty thousand
souls squeezed into every square mile, an endless lattice of concrete over the
unsteady earth, the anonymity of being right there on the scene but being so
small and so separate, bare and calloused feet touching the ground but never taking
root. I was a few drinks deep but not
sunken, walking home after parting ways with my friends who were; left empty –
streets empty, the din drifting away; streetlights dim, moon bright, but the starry
sky erased anyway. And I spotted her
across the street, squatting beside a bum enwrapped in a blanket the color of
vomit, leaning in and letting the flame at the tip of her cigarette nestle
against his until it lit.
She sat down beside him. She was the sort of girl decorated with a hundred-dollar
make-up and a ten-dollar t-shirt, perenially in jeans just a little too big or
a little too small, rear pockets stuffed all the same with a boyish leather wallet
and the latest Generation Z tech gizmo. Her
seraphic face was alight with laughter, his grizzled façade cracking a toothy
smile, the flickering orange spot-lights swinging with their animated gestures
as though their hands were actors on stage.
I found myself gradually approaching
her, and as she stood up to leave after a few long minutes, ramming her
cigarette butt headfirst on the concrete and tossing it indifferently into a public
rubbish bin, she noticed me watching.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“Do you need to?” I replied.
She smiled. “Of course not. This is a city with twenty thousand souls
squeezed into every square mile. I bet the
mayor doesn’t even know a thousand.”
She pivoted ninety degrees and
started down Prospect, away from downtown.
“Each thousand begins with one,” I said, following her.
“Isn’t it funny, though? That after that one, there’s only zeroes?”
The icy November wind swooped down
on the street, shoving the fallen foliage into the angles of the curb.
“Well, a heart only has so many
nooks and crannies in it. It doesn’t
matter how many people are around you, you can only care about so many. So after awhile, you’re just tacking on a
couple more zeroes,” I reasoned. “And,”
I added, “a few more pounds from all the beers it cost to meet them.”
She turned to look at me. “Well, someone’s
bitter,” she said.
“You’re the one who brought it up,”
I replied, shrugging. “Anyway, am I
leading you in the wrong direction? I
was just walking home without thinking.”
“No, not at all. I live down this way, too.”
“Oh?
Where at?”
“You know, the three-story townhouse
with the skinny-ass white oak tree in the front yard and the blue recycling bin
in the driveway overflowing with junk mail and beer cans, and that distinctive
black mailbox with gold numbers on it.
“It’s at the corner of that street with
the concrete sidewalks and the drains warning you that the water goes straight
into the river.
“With the compact car parallel-parked in
front, an advertisement and a parking ticket tucked intimately under the windshield-wiper. I don’t even have to give you an address, it’s
so unique.”
I glared at her for wasting a minute of my
time just to crack one sarcastic punchline.
“What a coincidence, my place sounds exactly the same.”
“Moreso than you think,” she said with
an asymmetric smirk, rummaging around in her jeans pocket before withdrawing a
pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?”
“Go right ahead, they’re your lungs,” I
replied.
She wound up her arm and
softball-pitched the thing into a trashcan ten feet away.
“Fifth time I’ve quit,” she reported
with a salute. “You know what’s weird,
though? I don’t start up again each time
‘cause I’m craving a nicotine buzz. It’s
because I like smoke breaks. You can
talk to your coworkers and watch the passerbys and just enjoy the open world.”
We’d walked two blocks now; the ground
was level but it felt like we were walking downhill because the buildings had
shed three stories. I remained
silent. I’d learned by now to let my
temporary buddy relish her monologues.
“And
you can get away from the noise and commotion and B. O. in the bars and clubs.” One hundred twenty-six: the number of
concrete squares that we’d stepped over together. I wondered idly how many words she could
rattle off per square.
“And you can slip outside your apartment
for just a little – just a little while – a couple minutes, to watch the people
who live in the same place as you set off to work and come back from school and
fall in love and break their damned hearts and get drunk and wander out all hung
over, belt on backwards, tie on crooked, but walking more or less straight, God
bless them.”
We rounded the corner onto the side
street where I lived.
“After all, that’s the only reason I
knew that we both call this lovely place home,
Catherine dear.”
I looked at her, not all that surprised,
but still failing to recognize her.
“I’ve seen you come back a dozen times,
sometimes on the phone with your long-distance boyfriend, sometimes texting
frantically like a tween half your age, sometimes listening to alternative rock
or some god-awful Euro house, or sometimes just fumbling around trying to find
your keys in your briefcase. Anything
except looking up to see a foolish girl on the porch practicing her smoke
rings. Just sit down with me this once.”
I obliged and we sat down on the front
steps. She took out her lighter and gave
it a deft flick before shifting her hand over and illuminating the air in front
of me. Ceremoniously.
“Shh, don’t tell anyone else that we’re
not really smoking. Kids don’t need any
excuse to lounge around outside, but adults need to keep up the appearance of
always doing something,” she said.
“Except street bums.”
She laughed. “That’s right, except street bums. They don’t need an excuse, either. I’ll tell Bill that, too. He’s got an awful cough these days, after all,
so he shouldn’t be smoking just to justify sitting outside.”
I kicked out my legs and stretched.
“He’s probably sick from all the germs
in that nasty blanket. Why don’t you
bring him a new blanket next time?”
“Hell no, the last one I gave him, he
pawned off for some Jack Daniels, and he didn’t even give me a drop to drink,
stingy motherfucker,” she growled. “I
can only say that ‘cause I love him, mind you,” she added.
“You love him? Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you, Catherine. You give it a try. ‘I love you, Estelle.’ That’s my name, you know. Or don’t.
But you know now.”
“That’s childish!” I said. “I only say ‘I love you’ to my boyfriend and
my parents.”
“But I love you, Catherine!” she said, leaning in so closely that her
t-shirt sleeve brushed against my shoulders.
I recoiled instantly.
“And your breath reeks, Estelle. Did you forget to put on perfume when you
heaped on all that make-up?”
“Yuck, perfume’s gross. And the make-up’s for your benefit, not mine –
I don’t have to look at myself,” she
said. “So, why won’t you say, ‘I love
you’ to me?”
“It cheapens it,” I said. “It’s distasteful to be all hipster and call
every sentiment of goodwill you feel ‘love.’”
“It no more makes me a hipster than
having short hair makes you a feminist or liking money makes you a capitalist
or using soy sauce makes you Chinese.
Tell me, who is in your heart right now?”
“My boyfriend, my parents, my relatives,
my confidantes and best friends, my mentors?”
She did a little math on her
fingers. “That’s what, thirty or forty
people tops? Is your heart really so
small that to give out an iota more love would steal from that which you’ve
already allocated?”
“My heart’s not small!” I cried.
“I didn’t think so, either,” she said,
nodding. “You know, I used to believe
that, too, that there was only so much genuine adoration you could have, and so
many ways you could divide it up. But
that’s mean, that’s like treating your heart like pie, or seats on a cab. For most of us, we don’t go walking around with
pies or cabs in our chests.
“The real reason we don’t extend our
love any more than we have to is the same reason billionaires are still
billionaires – we think we need more for ourselves than we would ever need.”
I looked at her, this peculiar, ordinary
girl with the hundred-dollar make-up and the ten-dollar t-shirt and the jeans
which were, this evening, a bit too big.
I looked at this girl who never knew when to stop talking or when to
stay out of people’s personal space or when to mind her own business. And I wondered: is she a child or an
adult? Is an adult a person who has financial
independence, who’s lost her virginity, who is married, who owns a house? Or have we gotten so used to using a
convenient surrogate – that an adult is someone who’s gone from having an open,
fecund heart to having a beating pie in her bosom?
“Heh, I finally gotcha, huh?” she said. Estelle looked up at the sky devoid of her
namesake. I imagined she could see them
anyway – the stars and galaxies and quasars and wormholes. I looked up, too, at the boundless ceiling
washed over in ultramarine, and suddenly I felt a warmth enveloping me. “Imagine,” Estelle whispered, still with arms
clasped about me, “if only I could convince everyone here that it’s okay –
hugging is nowhere near as painful as road rage or corporate meetings or
swimming practice or any other daily social interactions. If only I could convince everyone that you
won’t forget how to love your wife or husband or your parents if you
acknowledge that you love your neighbors, too.
Hell, imagine if people would just say ‘good morning’ when they passed
you by in the morning!
“Then, you know, we’d laugh – twenty thousand
people squeezed into every square mile? That’s
nothing compared to the twenty thousand right here in each of our hearts.”
I relaxed a little. I stopped worrying whether passerbys would
think I was drunk or a lesbian or dreadfully lonely or some combination of the three. And I hugged Estelle back, on our common porch,
somewhere along the endless concrete lattice over the unsteady earth, still so
small and so insignificant, but with one more precious person in my heart.
10.24.2010