“Matthew Wong”

And a sudden worn out clapping began and ceased after a couple of seconds. The speaker continued. “Kayla Yates”, blared the speaker and the clapping began again in a habitual fashion. “And to our absentee graduate, Jackson Lerwick”, the clapping was quieter now. The scene where these two women and a man sat was the epitome of happiness: Freshly cut green lawn, blue cloud filled skies and that light breeze that, in a way, took away the sun’s heat and left only it’s shine and brightness. The clapping began again, only this time it was louder. A woman sat somewhere in the middle of the seating arrangement, wearing black pants, white blouse under a black jacket. Her sun glasses did not reveal her tearing eyes. You see, at some point, this woman had lost her sun to nature and the world. He was swallowed by trees and exploration, by the water and its infinite depth. She clapped as loudly as she could. However, her hands could only give her so much strength.

Not too far from her stood a man in black. His hand in his pocket, running his fingers through the silver container that swished everytime he moved too much. His swagger was limp and weak, and yet he stood there, hoping that young man would show up and forgive him. And far from that man and woman stood someone whose heart had never taken so much pain and guilt. Guilt? Pain? Her heart did not know of their existence. The yellow and orange robes had darker stains on her chest. For a while now, she had hoped he would show up as well and prove to her that their friendship had indeed endured the difficulties that they faced, and that, despite their differences, this day could be shared between them. He never came. He didn’t realize it was today, but it didn’t make a difference. He never showed up, their tears didn’t seize and the apologies never came.

It was in spring of that year that my mother began to exercise a new hobby: sewing. It wasn’t your typical kind of sewing. A Guatemalan woman, Amparo, had recently begun working at the Italian restaurant as well. My mother, being the culturally curious person she is, quickly learned of the traditional and cultural art of sewing in Guatemala. It doesn’t consist of sewing clothing but drawings. A simple portrait of an item would suffice and instead of using acrylics, temperas or watercolors, one uses string. Luckily for her, our next-door neighbor, Quentin, was a comic book writer. Always delighted to display his skills in drawing, Quentin would eagerly draw for my mother’s new hobby. It was around this time of year that I began to see less and less of her. With my newfound friendship and junior year, I devoted a lot of time to my studies. However, on that day of the week my mother would devote herself to this hobby, I would cancel my plans and stay home. No place was better to work than home. I would sit next to the dark brown coffee table doing my homework and my mother, in her work uniform, would sit on the red brown couch and sew away. It was here when Joni Mitchell would speak to me. There was peace to this, despite the work I had to do. There was this serene kind of unity that went unspoken of. We would sit for hours, listening to Joni Mitchell and occasionally, Ryan Adams or The Replacements. There was a record that was always rolling: Songs of a Prairie Girl. That record first spoke to me about leaving, but a peaceful form of leaving. A leaving that consists of prairies and country marriage; leaves falling on the ground and spring winds. It was a leaving unlike the one my father had recently undergone.
It was on a given drunken night when he barged into the house. I lay in my bed, night lamp curved into my book, Demian, when there was a bang on the floor. Startled by the sudden shaking, I ran into the living room, where my father lay. My mother’s door remained unmoving, and I knew this night, I’d have to take care of it myself. I crouched and his body reeked of alcohol. I sighed to myself and looked for the place where his body would be easier to carry. It was a simple movement of my hand that startled him awake and made him hurl a first at my face. I was caught off guard. My face was blown sideways and I fell back. My right cheek began to burn and a bloody gash formed under my eye. I ran my fingers through my cheek and lifted myself off the ground. I ran my fingers through my hair and could feel my brain boiling in anger. My body ached, my face reddened and adrenaline began running to my body. Thinking back on it, it was the adrenaline caused by anger that made my foot aim at me dad’s stomach. It was one of those situations that, in your eyes, took an hour to occur but in truth, it took less than half a second. My leg felt heavy as I lifted it off the ground and I could feel the momentum when my foot rode with his gut. I breathed heavily and watched him groan in pain. My eyes stung from the sour sweat that fell on my eyes. I could hear him breathing as heavily as I was. I dragged myself to the couch and lay myself to sleep.
It would be a year before I ever saw my father again. After that, I only saw him about two more times in my life. I never truly hated him for looking me up years later. The way I saw it, after all he did to my mom and me, he might as well not even patch up what he ripped off himself. Ask me today and I’ll still call him my dad because at some point in my youth, he was my father.

My vision filled with gray. The stairs, the walls, the giant screws. My vision was filled with gray except for that tiny fraction of the area that had glass, in which case were the elevators. It only took a few seconds for me to convince her. I looked at the glass elevator and then directed my sight to the stairs. “You’re kidding, right?” her jaw dropped. “Why would I be kidding? It’s the fun that counts.” I tried to make it sound easy. “There is no fun when you’re climbing stairs…” she trailed off in a sarcastic manner. I grinned as I grabbed her by the wrist and began dragging her towards the stairs. One flight, two flights… third. By the third, I began falling behind. She was about five steps ahead when she yelled at me: “And it was YOUR idea to go up the stairs!” As ironic as it sounds, I began to regret it. It didn’t help to see the comfortable elderly take the glass elevator. They went up top in a fraction of the time it took us to get up. I could have easily been mistaken for a dog with my loud panting. My vision of gray hadn’t changed. She grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out the door. I could feel the cold wind of May sweep through my hair. A sea of blue stretched across my view and magnificent beaming towers rose to the sky. The sky wasn’t bright blue but a fading blue without clouds. I looked to my right to see her smiling, from ear to ear. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be doing all these tourist-y things.” And I was glad it was I. Ever since we begun hanging out, we began to teach each other things. I taught her of literature and history fun facts. She taught me about the one single complicated thing in this world: women. She spoke about women as if she wasn’t one. In my eyes, she was but she also represented friendship. In my eyes, she wasn’t complicated but the result of simplicity. She was a mixture of music, urban culture and art. She was a mixture of passion and desire. You could see it in her eyes; they burned bright as she spoke. All these things represented simplicity in her. She spoke of women I didn’t know and wasn’t interested in. At the time, I didn’t see it. Especially when miles of beautiful scenery lay in front of me. “I wanna get out of here, you know. It’s ironic. I mean, if this were a small town I’d understand the urge to wanna get out but.. We’ve got the whole world here, and yet…” I knew what she meant. In fact, it was she who had sparked those same feelings in me. I ran my fingers through the stone concrete I laid my elbows upon. I turned around and glanced up. “She actually looks better from far, you know.” She knew. The graceful green of the statue paired perfectly with the sky. There were no birds in the sky, just the tranquil sound of the sea. Ironically, this was the only place in New York with the least amount of noise (despite its tourist purpose).
We sat down on white steel chairs right after the touristing session. The chairs and tables were placed neatly on the side of the park, in a way that you could see New York. There was a small stand to our left, serving hot dogs, coffee and soft drinks. After spending hours without consuming anything, we hurriedly rushed up the line and ordered coffees and hot dogs. “We should be heading back home”, she said after we had begun to head towards the ferry. “I’ve got stuff to do and… well, I can’t stick around too late.” I reached out for her arm in attempt of making her stay a bit longer. “Please…” But instead, she dragged me onto the ferry.
“I’m seeing someone.” she approached me the next day with that sudden hit to the heart. Melinda looked down at her feat, unable to look me in the eyes. “I just wanted to let you know…” she trailed off. I had been seeing someone. Her name was Melinda McLorean. However, there had been certain complications. I don’t know when I involved myself in such a superficial relationship. It was on a drunken night when I confessed my attraction to her and one thing led to another. Well, it only lasted a week or, better put, it only lasted until the physical attraction began to wear out. “She broke up with me”, I told Layla with a forceful smile that afternoon. “Good”, she punched me on the shoulder. “She was too much for you.” she laughed .”And you’d think that as my friend, you’d be supporting me.” She smiled and flipped her hair at the comment. Layla and I spent countless hours together. It always ended with her being the first one to leave and my smile fading away. The rest of my day would be homework, sometimes job, and silent conversations with my mom. As I walked home that day, I began an introspection. On the doorstep of my apartment sat a young man. His eyes closed and his hands, instinctively, playing on soft nylon strings full of melodious riffs. His fingers, gently and intensively, touched each string as he began picking through the introduction of Hallelujah. And Huckleberry Finn came to mind. His journey with a black man to freedom. My father came to mind. His fantastical stories of escape and freedom. Uncle Tom and Huckleberry, Tom Sawyer and Jack Kerouac. The idea of escape heightened my soul’s senses.
I didn’t get home early that night. I sat down and listened to the soft melody play in my ears. At some point, I could have felt my mother’s glance from above. And for the first time, that didn’t matter. Her loneliness didn’t matter but mine did. A strange feeling awakened in me, which at the moment I began to feel guilty about: She needed me more than I needed her. That loneliness was not in absence of her but in the absence of the escapades that stories spoke about.

Hey guys! I want to thank the few viewers I’ve had. If you’ve got any suggestions, go ahead. E-mail me at mgephardt@peacemail.com

I’ve been procrastinating so long that when I began writing this, I haven’t been able to put down my pencil. However, I feel like this portion has too many flaws. I’m open to any suggestions… PLEASE!

There’s a constant and catchy bass pattern followed by soft, harmonic strings at the beginning of “Matching Weight.” Then the song “begins”. The vocalist soothing voice just makes me feel like floating. Her voice is like sweet silence, and a melodic guitar comes in. “Don’t take it all so hard… for now.” Those were the last words I heard from her, the vocalist, when my mother’s co-worker, Sheila, tapped me on the shoulder. “Since you’re going to be waiting for your mom, Would you like anything?”, she balanced her weight on her right leg and her waist titled to the left. Her shiny red polished nails ran smoothly in the wooden table. She winked at me, “Don’t worry, sweetie, it’s on me.” I blinked and fidgeted. “Oh, no”, I laughed. “It’s okay, Sheila. I already ate.” She flipped her hair, said okay and began to walk back to the kitchen. The funny thing about that day was that I decided to go along, and not wait for my mom. It seemed as if my mother took longer at work than usual. I didn’t notice it then but now that I’m thinking back on it, it was probably because of my father. In fact, I saw him that day. Surprisingly, he wasn’t slurring or tripping on his own feet. As I walked out of the restaurant that day, I headed down a couple of blocks to my left. It wasn’t long before I stumbled with Tommy and my father. They were having a normal conversation, something I hadn’t had with my dad for a few weeks now. As I approached them, my father excitedly waved at me from far. As I got closer he began to say goodbye to Tommy. He walked towards me as I walked to him. He looked as usual: khaki pants, white collared shirt, and brown leather shoes. He was a practical man, nothing out of the ordinary. “Hey son!”, he stretched out his arms to hug me. I stood still. A simple hey would have sufficed. After weeks of being a bad husband, not so much a bad father, I didn’t even try. “Not today, Dad.” His smile rapidly turned into a frown. I accommodated my brown backpack on my shoulder and fixed the pencil lying on my ear, and continued down the street.

“I want you to apply to Dalton.”, my mother told me across the dinner table that night. She had specifically called me to the dinning room to talk. That was something she rarely did. “But… that’s too expensive.” She frustratingly, ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t want to hear you say that. You are a bright young man and you are just as capable as any of those rich kids there.”, her tone rose. “I have worked day and night just for you to get a better education.” My eyes widened as I saw my mother in frustration. “I want to go there, I do. But of all kids that apply there…” Her eyes widened in frustration. “Don’t..”, she paused and breathed in. “I raised you better than to hear you say this!” I leaned back. “What good is it for me to go to school if you can’t afford it?!”, I began to raise my voice. “I know you’ve worked hard. Believe me, I’ve been there but I am not a genius, and I doubt I get a scholarship. I am not going to sacrifice the wellness of this family over a luxury!” She lifted herself from her chair. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do with my family! You will apply to Dalton and go, even if it costs me all the money I’ve got. You deserve more than what you have and if you’re going to reject this opportunity I am offering you, then you deserve much less, Jack!” Tears of anger began forming in her eyes. I walked towards her and stood there, waiting for her to return to her normal self. “Your father… he hasn’t been making things any easier for me.”, she wiped her tears with her hand. “I feel like I’m a single mother, Jack.” She was. She really was. Sometimes he didn’t show up at all. He’ll come home the next day, lie on the couch and miss work. To us, he was invisible. Trouble was his money and my mother’s was no longer paying the dues. Overdue payment letters came in on some days. My mother tried to avoid me seeing them. It wasn’t long before I started working. Late nights, I would slip in my earnings in her purse. Everyday, when school ended, I would walk down to the Record Store I religiously visited. Now, I began an employee. A couple of times a week, I would be late when my mother had me running some of the errands she couldn’t do while she was at work. Things is, I couldn’t say no. What excuse would I have? Everyday, I would stand in the cashier box. Sometimes, I would walk down the aisles, flipping through records, and using some of my earnings to buy one. Sometimes, I had to work on Fridays. Usually, Fridays meant catching a foreign film with Liam or maybe heading down Times Square and going to Toys ‘R Us with Tommy or maybe to Madeleine with Taylor. It all depended on mood and schedule. The guy who did Friday night’s had quit. Apparently he was a douche bag and treated customer’s badly. I wasn’t surprised. No one wants to be stuck at work on a Friday night, but on one specific Friday night, I didn’t mind so much. I began walking down the B aisle and stopped at BA. I was looking for Band of Horses. They had been brought to my attention after I learned they were in The Shins’ record label, Sub-Pop. Our record store, like Best Buy, had one of those gadgets that lets you listen to the record before you buy it. I immersed myself in “The Funeral.” A light-hearted voice began calling out for me while I listened. “Any good?” I began removing the headphones from my ears when I recognized the voice. “I like it, but considering what you were looking for last time… I’m not sure.” I knew it was her. She was there, wearing a blue and white shirt dress and white flats. She took the headphones from my hands and pressed them against her ears. “Is There A Ghost” began to play. A smile grew across her face. “This is beautiful”, she said, still smiling. “But not exactly what you were looking for, right?” She laughed. “Bad Religion.” I laughed. She sighed. Judging by her outfit, I figured she would be going out. “I suppose you’ve got somewhere to be tonight?” She chuckled, sarcastically. “You know, I should. I changed my mind. I was heading down to watch a movie with a friend but she cancelled and I considered going alone but… doesn’t work out for me.” She sighed. “Hey, a good record can always make up for a bad Friday night.” She thought about it. “I want to say yes, but I haven’t found one yet.” I lifted up a Band of Horses record from the bin and held it towards her. “Nice try but I didn’t bring any money.” I began to reach into my pocket for 20$ when she grabbed my arm. “It’s okay.” Embarassed, I removed my hand from my pocket and set the record back on its bin. “Sorry if that was weird.”, I said to her. She smiled. “So…”, I attempted to change conversation topic. “What movie were you going to watch?” She leaned against the bins. “Well, I was thinking along the lines of some corny love story like ‘Love in The Time of Cholera’ but I’m not sure.” In an attempt to come up with an excuse to make her stick around… “There’s a TV and DVD player here.” She looked at me curiously. “Well… I just bought the Star Wars collectors edition.” Her eyes brightened. “Why didn’t you say that before?!”, she laughed. “But I can’t. I told my parents I would be back soon.” My smile went back to neutral. “BUT!… I owe you a movie.”, I smiled. “You do! And I won’t forget until we have a movie night.” She looked at me, sweetly. “You’re cute, you know that?” I scratched my head. “I try”, I said shyly. “Anyway, I’ll be seein’ you.” She began to walk out the door. And I knew I would. There was something about her that I wanted to see again.

I honestly knew I was more than what I was getting at the local public school, and my mom knew it. She knew it the moment I came home a couple of months after the beginning of freshmen year, with the story about my biology teacher: Mr. Aberdeen. Man of 42 or so, white skin almost pink with short white hair, almost balding. He kept in shape, but that’s because every other weekend he would drive upstate New York and visit nature. He would spend the weekend there and come to school on Monday with brand new photographs of birds, rodents and trees. No wonder he wasn’t married. You see, his class revolved around that. Every once in a while I would raise a question he either didn’t want to answer or couldn’t. Maybe it was a question within the biology-course range but he refused to continue talking about birds and rodents specifically. Years later when I took my first psychology course and witnessed, up close and personal, woman in labor, every other student my age was awed and awkward. The teacher asked us if we had ever seen something like this in our biology course, and someone cleverly answered that we had only seen birds, trees and rodents. I laughed at the thought. I also laughed when we were quizzed on birds sounds and not the reproductive cycle of cells. I was never a biology buff, but we all know our basics. Basics that I hoped would be expanded during my years in high school, but all I got was nonsense.

That’s the thing with public schools and counties. If you live in a bad neighborhood, you’re bound to get a bad school. That was part of the reason I sought education elsewhere. I was an honor student but realized I knew nothing. I knew my basic exponential rules but not how to use them in depth. My mother worked like hell to get me into private school, but she was never able to raise enough money. She was underpaid and it killed me. Not because it was little money, but little money in relation to who she was and what she represented in my life. She negotiated with the woman she worked with, Ms. Aimes, to reduce her working hours by one for her to get a new job as a waitress at a little Italian restaurant a couple of blocks from home. It was a cozy little place. Clay colored walls with plastic grape vines “growing” up the walls. They had a wine cabinet in the far right of the restaurant, next to the restrooms. The dinning hall had two booths, one to the right and one to the left. The center was filled with round tables for up to 6 people. I loved the place. Sometimes, after class, I would head out there. I would wait for my mom to get off from work to walk home together. We vowed to never take a taxi. The walk wasn’t long enough for a taxi ride, and it gave us an opportunity to talk. I barely got to see her those days. She would be at work by the time I was heading out to school and would go to sleep immediately after she arrived home. There was one day we took a taxi home. After her work, we dropped by the local dollar store. Our feet were worn out, especially hers. As I sat in the taxi, I opened by book bag and reached out for my walkman. As I opened it to insert The Chilli Peppers’ greatest hits, my mother put her hand on the back of my neck and said words I’ll never forget: “It’s a shame…”, she sighed, “that we’ve got nothing to talk about.” Never again did I waste on an opportunity to talk to her.

What I didn’t notice was that the long hours and my mother’s exhaustion began destroying her marriage. While at the restaurant, I would get my homework done so by the time I got home, all I had to do was read for pleasure. I couldn’t read during school, the book, Atlas Shrugged, was too big to carry around. I would lock myself up and read. That’s why I didn’t notice the constant arguments my parents had, until my father arrived later than usual one night. There were bruises on his face and cuts on his arms. His words slurred out of his mouth and his bloodshot eyes gave away the type of beverages he had been shuffling through for the past few hours. This was my father at his worst. And even if this sounds overdramatic, it was as if his soul had leapt out of his body. What was left of a person is what slurred horrible words and crashed into the light green walls of the living room. My mother, nimbly ,rushed towards him and held her hands out for his fall. He fell straight onto her arms, almost making her fall. I quickly ran towards them and accommodated myself under his arm as we carried him into the bedroom. That night, my mother didn’t sleep. I’m a light sleeper. Any sound, even if it’s a mouse’s crawl, will wake me up. That night, my mother’s almost-silent sobs woke me. I rolled myself onto the right and out of my bed and peeked out of the small opening from the door. There she was, almost silent, sitting on the red brown loveseat. Her face buried into the palm of her hands. She lifted her face up and I could see lose hair strands sticking onto her teary face. All her strong physical features were gone, for those 5 minutes that I watched her cry. She was an average size woman with jet black hair and yellow eyes. To me, her jet black hair was her strongest feature. People said she had incredible eyes but to me, it was her hair. Her rich yellow eyes lost its glow that night.

It was on a Tuesday when my mom handed me the 12$ she had earned as tip since Monday. She had heard me rambling about Jimmy Eat World’s brand new record, Clarity. My family had a long line of musicians. My grandfather had been a doctor/violinist. His brother had been an orchestra director and his son, a pianist. The record store was about ten blocks away from where we were, and fifteen from home. As always, I decided to walk there. I pushed open the glass door, and the silver trinket sounded over the door. When I look for a new record, I don’t go to “New Releases.” I head over to the alphabetically listed records. I think that when I look hard enough, I might just find something I like. I ran through the Hs and Is and finally came to the Js. Jimmy Eat World’s Clarity was at the front of Jimmy Eat World’s bin. I ran my fingers through the plastic and turned over the CD to look at the track listing. I heard someone shuffling through cases on my left. From the corner of my eye I saw a girl of about 5’6, long skinny legs covered in slightly baggy cords. Worn out black Chucks and over-sized (slightly) grey v-neck sleeveless t-shirt with Led Zeppelin’s angel printed on it. Her sandy blonde haired fell gracefully on her shoulders. “Looking for this?”, I pointed at the Clarity CD. Startled, she looked over. “No, actually. I was looking for Radiohead but Jane’s Addiction’s Nothing Shocking caught my eye.” It seemed as if she lingered on her thoughts and words. “But is that one any good?”, She motioned her head towards Clarity. “Well, the previous one was good but considering what you’re looking for you’re better of spending your money on Radiohead or Jane’s Addiction. Nothing Shocking happens to be on my list of CDs I would have if I were ever stranded on an island.” I smiled. I had my fairshare of friends: Tommy, Liam and Taylor. I didn’t really like the girls at my school, they seemed to be worried about things they shouldn’t be. Like what to wear to school or if anyone noticed what brand shirt I was using. But, most of the time, I was to immersed in my own world to be overly attentive of friends and girls. Tom would often accompany me to the Italian restaurant, while Liam and I usually walked to school. I had Taylor in a couple of classes. He happened to share my thoughts on a lot of the teachers and kids in our class. She chuckled at my comment. “I think I’ve gotta make on of those for myself.”, she said as she grabbed the Jane’s Addiction record. “Anyway, I’ve gotta be someplace else.” I had ran out of things to say. “The name’s Jack, by the way.” She stretched out her hand at me. “Layla.” The name fit perfectly, I thought. “Nice to meet you, Layla.” I began to make my way out of the aisle. “I’ll be seein’ you.” I turned around and headed out to the counter. And in fact, it wouldn’t be long until I saw her again.

I want to say it was sometime in April when my thoughts began to go crazy. It was Spring Break and everyone was visiting their relatives, but not us. We were too far, distance wise and economically. We originally came from Liverpool. Stories about the deep south and its history awed my father: Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Huckleberry Finn. I never got around to liking them. It’s not that I don’t appreciate them. I do appreciate some history, but slow-paced adventures never amused me. As he sat on his sofa, and I on floor, he would excitedly tell me about a given part in the book. He especially liked Eliza. Her character sort of grew on me, and when her name came out of my father’s mouth, I would perk up and listen. My father wasn’t much of a story-teller. He was more of a deep believer; everything he read, he believed it was possible in a non-naive sort of manner. I resent that. I never had the ability to believe like he did, and I wish he would have never had that belief. Especially after years of hoping I would end up with a higher education.

He desperately sought for a job back in America, the land of dreams. Ironically, it all came true. It wasn’t long before we arrived in New York City. I was only six years old when I first got yelled at by an angry taxi man. I wasn’t haunted by that thought, but as a six year old, when you arrive at your new home, it’s the last thing you want happening. We moved into a flat down in Harlem, where the black boys down the block had a laugh at my name and accent. I eventually grew out of it, called myself Jack and spoke perfect American English. I was no longer laughed at but called Union Jack, after the British flag. In fact, I grew an ear to ear smile when they began calling me “American.” The culture had grown on me, especially the part where everyone went about their own business. Except for the black boys that were always poking at me, in a friendly manner.

I don’t know what came about me when I decided to run away from home. I was home on a Monday afternoon. My father had opened a grocery store not too far from home. I could easily walk there whenever I felt alone, but as close as it was, my father told me to avoid walking the streets if I could. And so I did. My mother worked as a maid on the East Side. As a kid, I never realized how difficult that must have been for her. My mother was a proud being. She had grown in a tough family. Her mother, Mimi, never said a word of appreciation towards her. She studied at the Liverpool College of Art, until she got pregnant and her dreams of becoming an art teacher were gone. Mimi had looked down at her even before that. But I never saw Mimi with the same eyes my mother did. To me, she was the grandma that smiled when she saw me. However, I did eventually changed my view about her. I looked at her with different eyes the day she reprimanded my mother for who I had become. My mother lay on a old, smooth loveseat. Her knees curled up against her chest, her black, curly hair upon her eyes and the tears staining the the sofa. And I can honestly say that was the first time I saw my mother go weak. It works differently with my mother. Some people argue that it’s not punishment that hurts you but when someone tells you “I’m disappointed.” That never affected her. What did affect her was the way people saw me. To her, I was the most well-educated, polite and insightful young boy there was. Not that she was wrong about it, but I wasn’t perfect. She knew she had raised me over protectively. She tried to put on a face whenever she went to work, but I knew she wanted better. So I stood alone at home.

There is a brown cigar box full of pencils, erasers, and trickles. Smooth, wooden, clean cut cigar box that I had always wanted to keep. It had photographs too. One of my mother, next to my dad and his two best friends. I like to think I will look just like either of them. The black boys had stolen my pencils earlier that day. It was a joke, they knew how I took my work seriously. So I climbed up on the dark wood coffee table and leaned over the red brick fireplace. I touched the smooth surface and reached out for the cigar box, and fell forward. My chin hit the rug and my feet hit the edge of the table. I rolled on to my side as I rubbed my chin. My eyes began to get teary, and my nose runny. It had been a while since I cried. I had last cried when we arrived at the apartment and wanted to go home. This time, I cried for the same reason. I was angry. I rolled on my back and crossed my arms. I lay there until there was a knock on the door, and the knob turned open.

“Hello?”

I knew she could hear my footsteps as I rushed into my room. “Jack? I threw myself infront of my bed and launched myself under it. My hands reached out to the red Speed Racer carry-on. I had gotten it for my past Birthday and had used it to guard my most valuable possessions ever since. I pulled it towards me and carefully slid my body out from under the bed, I unzipped the bag. An Eiffel Tower miniature figure, pictures of animals from the Serengeti and a book: The Little Prince. Those were just a couple of things inside my Speed Racer bag. My Mom had read The Little Prince to me that same Birthday. I laughed with her at the thought of parents not understanding. My mom always understood me. She understood why I had few friends or why I loved being outside so much. She understood why I observed and how I got around on my own. She understood me when I decided to camp out in Perthshire. She also understood me when I would sit outside on the stone fence and draw squirrels, birds and rodents. But this time, I felt misunderstood as I threw my clothes, pencils and notebooks into the bag. I grabbed my military style cap and began to march out the door. As I peeked my head out into the living room, I heard the shower running in the next room. I paced across the living room and slowly opened the front door.

The streets were crowded, rowdy. It was 4 PM so everyone was coming home. Kahlil, my neighbor and watch-stand owner, was standing next to the apartment complex stairs. “What are you up to young man?” I scowled and continued my path. I had noticed the Pace Bus on my way to school about a week ago and decided to instinctively follow my school route in hopes of encountering the bus. I skipped down the street as the people sitting in their apartment stairs and sidewalks eyed me. I was on a mission. To them, I probably seemed like a deranged little boy. There was a black girl with curly hair held back in a pony tail reading a book, and chubby red-head eating a hot dog and lastly, a tall Muslim man dressed in white. I stopped. He was tall, I would say about 6′5. He had a long black beard that covered his neck, and a pale brown skin tone. His nose arched forward and eyebrows joined right above his nose. His scalp was covered by a white “blanket”, at least in my eyes. The man grimaced at me and asked me what I was up to. I stared at his long black beard, and, observingly, asked where he was from. I guess he noticed the honest interest in his eyes, and soon, we were sitting down on some chairs he had brought out from his one-room apartment. He sat formally and gracefully. His long legs parallel to his torso, as mine awkwardly wiggled over the ground. His family, as he explained to me, was from a nomadic tribe.

“What’s a nomad?”, I asked innocently.

He explained to me what it was. He was a Shiite nomad from some country in Africa I wish I remembered. He told me about the women in his tribe and what they wore on their head. I asked him if he missed his family. He said yes, but “I love my life here.” I smiled. “I wanna be a nomad!”, I jumped excitedly. “I wanna be a nomad in Africa with the rhinos, and lions and leopards and cheetahs and baboons…”

“Now there”, He said. “It’s not all like that, little boy.” I smiled and ashamed by my excited reaction, sat myself back down. “It’s a difficult lifestyle…”, he sighed. A taxi in front of us came to a quick stop. A robust man with strawberry blonde hair burst out of the Taxi. He was still wearing his red apron from the grocery store and his white, rolled up sleeves shirt. He burst out of the taxi and ran into me. “Damnit Jack!”, he screamed. “What the bloody hell are you doing out here?!” A second later, he became calm and collected. “Your mother called and said you had gone missing!”

The Muslim man stood up. “I am Farruhk.” My father stretched out his hand to him. “I apologize for any inconveniences my son might have caused.” Farruhk grinned. “Oh no, not at all. You have a very polite young boy.” My father hugged me and carried me up. With one hand, he held me. With the other, he carried my Speed Racer bag. And all I could think about was life in the Serengeti, being a nomad, being on my own. I could see myself at the top of the Eiffel Tower or the Empire State. I could see myself at the top of Mt. Kilimanjaro or Everest. As far as I knew, I could go anywhere.

I want to say that my trip back was, for lack of a better word, picturesque: wind blowing through my hair, cool breeze caressing my face, fresh smell of spring… but it wasn’t. In fact, I was surrounded by the smell of hot sour sweat and the stench of heat. The truck rumbled as it drove through potholes and roadkill. It’s not like this back home. I could tell what time of day it was, not specifically but I could tell if it was day or night through the crack in the door. Enough sunlight came in as to see the face of the people sitting next to me: a robust man with a five o’clock shadow, large stetson hat which he eventually took off due to the heat and a red plaid shirt with his sleeves carefully rolled up, his pant legs were rolled up as well; on my other side sat a young woman. It seemed as if hard-work, dirt and sweat had added a couple of years. Anyone else would have quickly assumed she was about forty years of age. She was always mumbling indistinctly, though I did catch on to certain phrases such as “Santa Maria” and “ruega por nosotros.” Sometimes she took a breath of two and began to mumble a “Padre Nuestro”, a catholic prayer I had learned during my stay with Manuelo’s family. His son, Obsaldo, explained to me what it meant and how that prayer had aided him during his family’s economic difficulties. Sometimes, he told me, when he lost an object that was dear to him, he would pray the Padre Nuestro halfway through. I was perplexed. He explained he directed the prayer to his grandfather, beseech him to help find the missing posession. Through out my life, I never believed in such “nonsense”, but by some miracle, Osbaldo found his lost toy car, thus finishing the prayer. I believed him. This woman’s prayer overwhelmed me. It seemed as if, now, when she’s desperate, she seeks help and forgiveness. In the corner of her eye, she noticed me observing. After quickly analyzing my blonde hair and white face, she proceeded in asking in bad accented english: “Do ju wan someting?” I flinched and turned away. Not much had to be said.

We were only few kilometers away from El Paso when the bus came to a halt. Foot steps crunched against the dirt and rocks, and the truck doors swung open. A scrawny man in a white beater and dirty baggy jeans pointed out in the open.

It had been a while since I had walked around a city. In a way, I still felt surrounded by the familiarity Manuelo’s family and friends brought me. It was a similar culture. El Paso is certainly no New York City but after a year of travel, it began to seem like it. I walked down its crowded streets, avoiding taxis and cars, trying to remind myself of crosswalks. I could feel the heat rays burning through my hair and into my scalp. My legs ached, even after a couple of hours of traveling by vehicle. In desperate search for food and rest, I stumbled upon a small motel called “Eagle’s Nest.” I smiled at the thought of the name. After extensive shackling of the doorknob and forcing the key, the room door flew open. The room was not much: a bed against its left wall with nightstand and a sink right beside it and a closet in the opposite wall. I closed the door and kept my hand on the doorknob. It had been a while since I had received this kind of hospitality, though I had no roomservice or laundry (Not that I had much clothes), I felt comfort. I let my backpack fall off my shoulders and approached the mirror infront of the sink. With a shatter on the corner and badly hung, the mirror reflected someone I hadn’t seen in a while. My hair had grown out of place, I ran my fingers through the sides and pushed the messy locks behind my ears. I had more facial hair than ever. Not that I grew much but relatively, it had grown way out of proportion. Oil, grease and dirt stains discolored my white shirt and sweat drenched my rolled up jeans. My slip ons were out of shape. At some point in my life, I had a large collection of slip ons. From the Robert Williams special edition to the Oliver Peck designs. Now, I only had one pair: the white ones. Truth is, they weren’t even white. They were marked by the dirt, mud, water and moss that had fallen on them, the rocks, falls and bumps that had cut through them. For the first time in days, I took them off. I sat myself on the edge on the bed and contemplated showering.

I turned the shower knob and water fell on me. I flinched as the heat of the water fell upon my skin. After using rivers, lakes and ocean as shower-sources, hot water had become nonexistent to me. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair and relaxed. After a long and extensive shower that ended when my neighbor banged on the door, I headed out to the closest CVS. As I walked down the aisles, I picked up everything I would use in the near future: clean clothes, shampoo, razor, soap, rice krispies and mountain dew. I threw all my spare change at the cashier and prayed that I had enough, and I did.

That night was the longest I had in years. I contemplated all the things that had occured to me during the past years, and all the changes I had undergone. Radical changes. I lay awake until sometime in the morning. I never knew how much time on could take thinking and analyzing one’s life. Sometime around 6 AM, I rolled on my side, pulled the sheets over my head and closed my heavy weary eyes.