[fiction] City Walls

This selection is a {semi} autobiographical selection for my creative writing portfolio, written in an interior monologue narrative.
=====================================================================

     Next stop, 18^th & California.  The doors are closing, please step to the center of the train to make way for boarding passengers…..   This is my stop.  I push my way through the protruding limbs, around a pair of giggling Hello Kitty backpacks, and stumble down the stairs to find myself lodged precariously between a ticket box and its adjacent platform pole.  While the short sightedness and apparent small stature of whoever planned this space is lamentable, my critical energy is better spared to focus on making my connection.  I wriggle out of my backpack and squeeze into the lane of travel, where after a short distance of strategic twisting and dodging, the sea of people breaks open and spits me out on the empty sidewalk.  With no time to spare, I break into a sprint only to cast a few steps before my bus whizzes through the next intersection, mocking me with the diesely growl of its accelerating engine.

Damn!

  The abrupt block of momentum exhausts in the form of an agitated sigh.  That spark of energy wasn’t enough to raise my pulse, but I feel my cheeks flush with sudden embarrassment at my gratuitously pushy display.  A quick survey of passers by reveals no critical gazes, a small relief from my humiliation, and I breathe deep to get my bearings.  The aroma wafting from a nearby pizza joint snaps my focus back to the downtown bustle.  I’ve always liked the city, I’ve got nowhere to be but home, and the next bus will be along soon enough.  Might as well make it enjoyable.

  I take a minute in the fresh evening air to adjust: checking pockets, fidgeting with my jacket (off?... on?... off), tightening my backpack, and retrieving my dangling headphones.  I know this block, I walk it nearly every day, but under influence of a soundtrack the sights take on a transformation of almost cinematic appeal.  The taxi cabs, bike messengers, and pedestrians, all stand-ins on the urban set.   And in the golden autumn sun, I am the enamored observer, both fascinated and detached, waiting for the story to unfold.  I don’t think about my day, no missed busses, no scowling people, no extra baggage.  It’s just me, encapsulated by the tall buildings, the beautiful buildings, free to move unnoticed amidst the hustle of a city in transition.

  My bus stop is only a short journey around the corner, but I linger, wandering through a public garden, taking detailed notice of the progress on the new sky-scraper, stretching overhead.  Eventually I arrive at the designated waiting area to find a loose group of expectant travelers.  They stand idly as scripted, making as little eye contact as possible, never speaking except to ask the time of the next bus arrival.  I see the empty bench, and spend only a moment inspecting it for suspicious moisture or other telltale residue before deciding to sit.  

  A few uneventful minutes pass by, when a burst of distant movement catches my eye.  The woman down the block takes no shame in making her presence known, clutching and waving the collar of her shiny blue jacket, stepping her puffed-up sneakers in a rhythm somewhere between strut and stumble.  It becomes apparent that she is headed straight for us, and I pretend not to notice, pulling my dark glasses down to hide my gaze.  The others do the same.  She sets her sights on the empty end of the bench, plunking down with an exaggerated slump so heavy it creaks the anchored metal supports.  Her hands flutter around, signaling that she is talking, and I respond by expressing urgent interest in the most recent email that chirps for attention from my phone.  She carries on with her display, undaunted by my lack of concern, and unaffected by the growing number of bothered stares from silent onlookers.

  I try desperately to ignore her, as though her humiliation would somehow be reduced by my willingness to overlook it.  But she continues to invade my space, begging for my attention, breaking down the barriers that I so tactfully erected.  I think she’s singing now, I can feel a slow rocking disturbance in the air next to me and I’m afraid to even glance sideways under the cover of my glasses, so I drill my attention harder into the digital distraction in front of me.  Within seconds, my ears begin to burn, and I have only an instant to recognize the claustrophobic wave that rushes over me as her head suddenly nestles in my lap.

                                                                                                                                                                                 Shit !!!!

  The shock renders me speechless - only the click of a thought escapes the back of my throat.  My body wants to lurch backward, but the fixed bench keeps me still, and I am frozen in a gesture of surprise: mouth gaping, arms halfway raised, one leg slightly up as if searching for an invisible hold from which to spring forward.  I peer up above my glasses in a desperate search for help, only to see the swift snap of gawking bastards turning their backs.  The potent aroma of Aquanet spiked with Zima brings my attention back to the woman stretched languidly in my lap, and my body sucks away, as though trying to get out from underneath a spilled drink.  I’m definitely not getting the smell of booze out these clothes any time soon.

Before my brain can manage to spur my body into action, she sits up, primps her blonde nest, and grins at me sheepishly through baby blue eyes, her mouth forming words in the shape of a half-slurred apology.  She lays back down, not touching but still unbearably close, and my nose crunches up in disgust at the smell, at her, at the people around us, at myself.  I turn away and stare at no one, examining my better sense of social decency to determine if it’s worse to walk away and pass her off to the next unfortunate stranger, or to hold my ground and suffer.  I make a compromise, staying put, but still pretending to ignore her, allowing my attention to be distracted by a wall of windows reflecting the setting sun.  I only pray that the power source holds and keeps the soundtrack running; it’s my one remaining vestige of isolation.

  She keeps talking, this time into the distance.  The song in my ears is angry.  It matches the tension she carries in her jaw, and I start to wonder what she’s going on about, what her life is like.  She curls up tighter and stares at the ground.  I can feel a bristle in her demeanor and make no guesses as to whether it has anything to do with the man approaching in a heated gait.

  “Julia!  Get the fuck up!  Don’t make no more trouble with people!”  He connects with her arm and yanks her off the bench, whipping the air next to me into a chilled torrent.  

Fucker.

  I grit my jaw and slide my glasses up over my head, staring daggers into his squinty brown eyes, which he shifts shamefully away.  In perfect timing, the bus pulls up, and the gawking bastards jockey eagerly for boarding position.  They pile on one by one, followed by the unphased, giggling woman and her aggravated companion.  I am the last to board, taking a seat near the front where I don’t have to watch the sad story unfold behind me.  A melancholy melody floods my ears, lulling me into forgetful calm as the film rolls on.  The scenes cross and fade, past the beautiful buildings, beyond the railyard, and into the projects, where a man cries on his front stoop.  It’s here that the music finally dies, but I keep my headphones in place, still pretending to ignore.