Drowning in the City
The deep grey material of his coat had become almost black, darkened from the current downpour. He could feel the drops seeping through the thick woolen fabric that nearly reached his knees. The jacket had been a present, or at least that’s what he thought, he couldn’t remember exactly where it was from. It had quickly become his favorite. The rain continued to weave its way through the natural fibers until it had soaked through the shoulders of suit jacket he had on underneath. Water continued to pour down from above, dripping from the skeletal trees above his head, dousing the metal park benches scattered along the walkway, until they were swimming in pools of standing water.
He kept his head down, the hat resting on the crown of his head keeping his hair dry. His light grey eyes followed the repetitive movement of his leather oxfords. His dark blue eyes traced the complex broguing running in loops about his toe and the laces. Right, left, right, left. They carried him forwards, stepping in puddles of varying lengths along the way. The sound of their hardened soles hitting the wet cobblestones was muted in the open air of the dreary park.
He was the only one in the park. It was far too late for anyone else to be around. Even the buzz of the city’s habitual night owls had lessened to only the occasional laugh of a socialite or the honk of a car horn off in the distance. Some might find it lonely, this bubble of quiet and stillness, but to him, it was soothing. Even the chill creeping into his skin and bones could stop the continual movement of his rapidly dampening feet.
Woman in Office
Rebecca shifts her pearls around her neck. They were recommended because of their classic Americana feel; Jackie O, Marylin Monroe, the works. Everyone wants a pillar of femininity, a figurehead of the delicate matriarch.
And this is fine; it’s all fine.
Thirty-seven years of sweat, blood, and tears gets you handed a pearl necklace in a perfectly-heated office. Rebecca’s always had this pack mentality; work for the group, grind until you can’t anymore, profit. The bitterness started creeping in at around twenty-five. Cleaning beaches in the south pacific doesn’t give you the same rush anymore. Standing in front of a thousand people, however, does.
She puts her hands on the desk. Perfectly shined and oiled oak. For the first time in what seems like forever, the earth is quiet and still. Rebecca just admires the wood grain and reflective amber.
She sighs. Three years of a whirlwind - you met a man, you didn’t really like him but you turned on the charm because you’re done letting yourself be last choice. You’re given Dior perfume and thousand-dollar dresses and big massive scissors to cut ribbons with.
The war propaganda sticks in your head; the primal desire to be in uniform, follow orders, hold a gun.
“Mrs. Flores?”
She looks up.
“They’re ready for you now,” says the secretary, a smile just barely catching on her lips.
Rebecca tries not to let her eyes bore searing holes into the desk. It seems like everywhere she looks she risks setting something on fire.
“Thank you, Cara.” Cara knowingly nods and leaves quietly.
You love your husband, she thinks. But you love this country more.
And as she walks away, a forgotten thought spills out of her mind, left in the carpet where she was standing.
You would do anything for fame.
Home
To her left, a car is sputtering. Every three seconds she hears it attempt another fleeting lunge for life, but every four seconds the air inevitably quiets to a simple ringing of police sirens ten blocks away. The old beast finally gives up, so that means there’s just another person that will attempt to find a bus- or a cab- in this brisk night. It’s a ‘well-loved’ type of car, as her mother would call it, one that’s been crashed five too many times and one that hasn’t been found in a car dealership for the past twenty years. She wonders if the man who would have drove is going to yell, or bunch his long mustache, or simply take it in stride. The car has been beaten enough that the latter isn’t going to happen, though, and she knows it. She’s been waiting outside of the tallest building in the city for far too long, already. She’s sure the man in the car thinks she’s up to something. It’s larger than she imagined it would be, even though all the pictures proportion it up to be about this height, as shown with a scale of a nickel for every fifteen floors. The man she’s supposed to meet is walking in front of her. He has a job she’s always wanted. She left a nicer one in San Francisco. She recognizes the man’s hat from old portraits and all she hopes is that he doesn’t notice her sun dress. She’s shivering in it, curled in on herself like a clam on a beach just waiting to be picked up by curious kids trying to prod at it, wanting it to open itself up. This time, though, it’s just the wind that jabs her sides. It’s cold, much colder than she’s been in years, and it’s damp. The petrichor soaks her nostrils with the smell of dewy pavement. The California summers have nothing on this imperfect night. She is finally home.
Mom's Necklace
She carefully swipes the brick red cream over her lips. When it slightly goes outside the lines of her lips, she wipes the edges clean, but they leave a slight stain of the color onto her skin. She paints her face, taking her time and making sure that everything looks perfect. She runs to her mother’s room and opens up the jewelry box. She quickly takes a ring and a string of pearls. She pearls clink together as she runs back to the bathroom. She clasps the necklace behind her neck and shivers a bit to the touch of the cold pearls touching her skin. She slides the gold ring over her ring finger on her right hand. The ring makes her feel like she’s is more like her mom and less like herself. She feels important and sophisticated. She brushes her hair up and back, tying it into a small bun at the top of her head. Finally, she opens her mouth and makes sure her braces are clean and free from the burger and fries that she ate a couple hours earlier.
Canyon Land
I drive through the throat of the concrete canyon in silence. Unable to see the tops of the looming buildings, the light ahead blinds me as if I were being swallowed by the sun. The buildings have multiplied since I last drove down here, but they still all look the same. A myriad of glass windows and concrete pillars show no intention of biomimicry. They pop up like weeds, reaching above competitors to absorb the most sun. I scan the greying sidewalks speckled with old gum and something is triggered at the edge of my mind. I am brought back to the days when snow peaked mountains were visible on the horizon. Now, mountains of trash are the closest resemblance to the natural world.
Bike lanes flank my right and left sides, encouraging the use of bikes in a weak attempt to make up for the sea of concrete the city has created. My Mini Cooper feels microscopic when surrounded by monstrous stalagmites. Shoulders tense up under the weight around me while claustrophobia paralyzes me from the inside out. Each knuckle turns a snowy white as I grip the wheel, focusing on the road ahead. White stripes on the pavement create my breadcrumb trail to lead me out of this concrete canyon before it swallows me forever.
Dust
The dust was still settling as the children came back out. The booming echo died out and the last few bricks shook loose from a few toppled structures. It never took more than five minutes before they were back out playing in the dirt roads. What would’ve been a catastrophe in the homeland of one belligerent was just another day in town for the kids. The children's’ happy yells were symphonic with engines starting back up and rifles clicking to safe. An EOD dog barked as toy soap bubbles passed by its snout. The road was a strange, dust-coated juxtaposition of what the adults viewed as war and what the children viewed as Thursday. The dogs calmed down and re-entered the vehicles. Adrenaline surged and then drained, settling to a slightly higher level each day. The dust settled after a few moments only to be kicked back up by metal treads and rubber tires, waiting for the city’s next bout of chaos.
The Old Woman from the Convenience Store
She sits here every Tuesday, in between the rows of canned beans and toilet paper rolls. At 8 o’clock promptly, she walks into our convenience store, the chimes on the door ringing behind her. Moving slowly, she picks up her little white stool and places it in my corner. Her back faces me. She wears the same floral blouse every time. She smells like vanilla and potpourri. Still silent, she takes out her instrument, placing it in between her knees and delicately holding the top with her left hand. Her right hand holds the bow. There is a pause. She sits still. The canned beans and toilet paper anxiously wait for their weekly concert to commence. She takes a deep breath in. Then it begins.
Plague of California
Do you ever stop dreaming if you never wake up? If I were to say that in this moment, engulfed in my greatest desires, I had my eyes closed long enough for you to be convinced that I had drifted off, could anything that I experience be that of a dream? I would like to think so. Entranced in the drug that is her own beauty, she lies on the beaten sand knowing the sun just can’t get enough of her. Really no one can. She tells me she enjoys my company, but I can tell by the way her eyes never completely meet mine, that another person has her attention. Blue eyes like that of the ocean floor have become a cliche squeezed into one too many novels, but when you see them for yourself you will think otherwise. It’s California- the girls look for their piece of eternal sunshine, yet here I am staring into it hoping, screaming that I will find mine. My sunglasses fit too well, and I am forever alone with synesthesia telling me that her ineffable nature, seen with closed eyes, is an inescapable screeching much like that of a car avoiding it’s destined, but far too innocent target.