After a full day of sitting in my living room, slaying Fel Orcs in my lap and watching Olympic feats in the periphery, I go for a walk. My apartment begins to feel like a cave. It could be an apartment anywhere for all the world around me knows.
I've taken this walk almost every night for the last week. I follow the residential side streets near my apartment to Broadway, where I trek downtown to be part of city life for a short while. I used to listen to music when I walked, but lately, I make use of the time to call friends and family. To hear their voices. To ramble on about my daily grind. I spread it around so people answer the phone. I could probably call three people a day for a week and only talk to everyone once.
Tonight, as I stroll down Broadway and bore Katie, a couple guys sitting on the side of the road throw something at me. It hits me on the side of the neck. I look back, and they laughed. I keep walking, keep talking to Katie.
Downtown is pretty hoppin' at night with pubs, clubs and sports bars lining the streets. I turn down 9th, the hippest street in Columbia. It leads to the sociology building on campus. Some street folk ask for change along the way. They don't ask everyone, but they always ask me....even when I'm on the phone or have my iPod. Maybe I look generous. Maybe I look lonely. Or maybe my cell phone and iPod are just symbols of wealth. I dig in my pocket....I should sit down and trade my loose change for some conversation. I pass a coffee shop called Lakota on my way toward campus. I've seen about 10 coffee shops here, and that's the only one I can find now. I don't believe in fate, but what choice do I have?
The first day I forged this imaginary path, I stopped at a stone bench along the outskirts of the campus quad. It's a henge-looking seat with three rectangular pieces. It's funny how we (or maybe just I) attach ourselves (myself) to the slightest of habits and the most insignificant of objects.
I sit down on my bench (one of three or four just like it in this small stop) and look out over the would-be grassy courtyard. It is a sprawling, temporary desert ahead of the stately academic building. This setting could be quite grand if not for the construction that college campuses love so very much. The naked ground is surrounded by a fence of tiny orange construction flags. Sod rolls and tractors obscure the expanse not twenty feet from my seat. In the center of the quad stands a line of monstrous Roman columns like prison bars. A few people climb the base of the behemoth architecture, cheerleaders and long-dreaded Bohemians. If they squint, they can see my shadow on the smaller stones of the bench.
This scene is like my place in the world. It is the process of rebuilding with tractors all ready to work and grass prepared to grow; but this is night, and nothing moves. Everything rests without purpose, without much needed change. Massive symbols of the past rise up at the crux of the construction site, and I hold tight to the nearest stones. Strangers live nearby, but I sit alone. I watch the world make sense of itself around me.
I am the quad. I am anticipation of the future.
I get up and leave, cutting between buildings back to 9th. I pass drunks and couples patio-dining on the sidewalk. I stop at Lakota after looking around the same ole' street for another coffee shop. There's an attractive blonde girl working the register. I order my coffee, add a little creamer, and take a seat. I test myself not to look at her while I rest from the walk. I stare at the art on the wall, glancing at patrons chatting, some an arms length away. The light is warm, and I imagine, if the place doesn't get too busy, I could do my work here. But for now, I stare at the wall, sipping my coffee. I feel embarrassed. I get up and leave.
I turn back onto Broadway. I pass the short wall where the two disrespectful young men once sat. I'm not on the phone this time. I remember the dry smack on my neck. All at once, I feel an overwhelming sense of rejection.
I pull the phone from my pocket, select another number and hurry home.
I can't ruin this for tomorrow.
-Mike
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